


Fragile

by BlushLouise



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Grief, Idiots in Love, Loving the enemy, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Unrequited Love, War, relationships of all kinds, sparkling Bluestreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16191455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushLouise/pseuds/BlushLouise
Summary: Cybertron, and the war is intensifying. The Decepticons are marching on Iacon.Inside the city, the Autobots are clinging to life, and to each other. Because when the world is collapsing around you, you need something to fight for.Unfortunately, love is anything but simple.





	1. Ratchet

_If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one_  
_Drying in the color of the evening sun_  
_Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away_  
_But something in our minds will always stay_

_\- Sting: Fragile -_

 

This was a bad idea. He’d known it from the moment Ironhide had tugged him inside, the grin on the weapon specialist’s face reflected in the grimy windows.

A look across the bar showed him that the warrior was enjoying himself, bantering playfully with the smiling, blue bartender. Ratchet snorted, downing the last of his cube of high-grade. Well, at least one of them was having fun.

He moved, intending to get up and get himself another cube, when the light in front of him was blocked by two approaching figures. They were exquisite - all soft curves and smooth angles, delicate colors polished to perfection, slim shapes just meant to put one’s arms around, and they stopped in front of him.

Typical. He’d attracted the attention of a pair of pleasurebots. Not normally something he’d object to, but today… Nothing was quite right today.

 “Hello,” the cloudy grey one purred, pulling up a chair and sitting down in front of him. “You look like you could use a break from the world.”

“I’m Lustre,” the other one added, kneeling down on the floor in front of the other. His frame was predominantly dark green, with silver thighs, hands and helm, blue optics twinkling. “This is my brother, Sheen.” He tilted his head, giving Ratchet a smile that was at once both cheeky and shy. “You’re a medic.”

 “I am,” Ratchet confirmed. He had no intentions of going anywhere with these two tonight, but talking to someone might be pleasant. At least for a while. And then he would send them on their way to find another patron. Wouldn’t be fair to cheat them out of their income just because he wasn’t interested. “And you two are twins.”

Lustre giggled, leaning back against his brother’s knee. “Yes, we are. How could you tell? Did you scan us just now?”

Ratchet shook his head, smiling back. Primus, these two seemed so young. Born and bred in wartime. “No. I have some experience with twins. I can see the signs.”

The dusky green mech grinned, a slow, languid expression with specific intent behind it. “Really? So you know how good we can make it for you?” His cloudy grey brother leaned back, intentionally giving Ratchet the best possible view of his frame.

Ratchet snorted. “Not that kind of twin experience. The kind that knows how to put them back together when they slag themselves up almost beyond repair.”

Sheen stood up, walked smoothly over to lean against Ratchet’s side. “You’re an Autobot,” he said softly, dark fingers touching the emblem on Ratchet’s chest, and Ratchet nodded. No point in denying it, really. Iacon was still safe enough for that, at least.

This close, Ratchet could tell that the grey twin’s highlights, which he had thought were black, weren’t as dark as that – they were the same green color as Lustre’s abdominal plating and legs. The brothers matched better than he’d noticed at first.

 “No wonder you need a break,” Lustre said, leaning forward to place both hands on Ratchet’s knee. “You must be overworked, with all that fighting lately.” His grey helm, crowned with silver ridges, tipped forward slightly until his chin was resting on his hands, and soft blue optics gazed up into Ratchet’s own. “Want us to take care of you? We can make you feel all better.”

“You can’t fix this, mechling,” Ratchet replied – as gently as he could, but he still sounded gruff to his own audials.

Sheen made a sympathetic sound, leaning in to caress Ratchet’s neck. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Ratchet replied, and this time he made no effort to soften his tone. “I don’t. Besides, you’re far too young for me.” He scoffs at himself. “Or I’m too old for this.”

“You’re not that old,” Lustre said, pulling one hand away so his cheekplate came in direct contact with Ratchet’s leg. “Though I’d bet you could show us a thing or two.”

Ratchet looked from the playful, devious look on the face of the green twin in front of him to the cloudy grey form leaning up against his side, still stroking him gently with slim fingers. “Primus. How did you two end up doing this anyway? There has to be better options for you out there?” He managed, just, to insert a smidgeon of wry humor into the questions. No point in offending them – they probably got enough of that anyway.

“Better than giving pleasure?” Sheen grinned, his fingers stroking and petting at Ratchet’s neck cabling. “Better than getting it?”

“I don’t know,” Lustre continued. “It seems like a pretty sweet deal to me. We get to meet interesting mechs like you every day.” Very discreetly, he let his mouth slide down towards Ratchet’s pale plating. “We get to have fun with mechs like you every day.”

“Pretty Autobot,” Sheen crooned, running elegant fingers down Ratchet’s chest. “Pretty medic. Come with us.”

Ratchet ex-vented heavily. “I’m sorry, mechlings. I’m not what you’re after today.” Gently disentangling dark fingers from his neck, he stood. “Tell you what, though. See that red mech at the end of the bar?” Sheen turned, looking at Ironhide. The weapons specialist was apparently downing his third cube, and his smile had grown for each one. Not that three was much, for him, not with the swill this place passed for high-grade. The mech was probably barely even feeling it. “His designation’s Ironhide,” Ratchet said, “and he’s a friend of mine. He’s had a bit of a rough time lately and could do with some cheering-up.”

“He’s strong,” Lustre said, admiration in his voice. “Look at his shoulders.”

“Thanks,” Sheen murmured, leaning in and planting a kiss on Ratchet’s white cheek. “I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you,” Ratchet replied, a slight quirk to his mouth plates. “Listen, if you want to get out of this at any point, come see us. We can teach you other skills.”

Lustre twisted to look up at him. “We’re good. But thanks.” He started walking towards Ironhide, then turned back. “Hey, you never told us your designation.”

“Ratchet,” the medic replied after a moment. “I’m Ratchet.”

“Bye, Ratchet,” the green mech smiled. “Nice meeting you.”

Ratchet watched as the twins walked towards his red-plated friend. Although, ‘walked’ might be too plain a word for it – undulated, maybe. Sashayed. Glided, definitely. And Ironhide watched them appreciatively as they approached.

Yeah. Good solution there, Ratchet. ‘Hide would get his gears stripped, and the twins would have a caring, careful lover for the night.

He raised his hand to wave at Ironhide, so the red mech would know he was leaving. The responding comm was not entirely unexpected.

::Callin’ it a night?::

::Yeah, ‘Hide, I’m done. I’m going back.::

::Can’t put it down, huh,:: Ironhide replied, and there was more than a trace of sympathy in there.

::You know I can’t. I’ll see you.:: Almost as an afterthought, he added ::Be good to them, ‘Hide. They’re young.::

::I’m always good,:: the red mech sent.

It was true, Ratchet knew. That’s why he’d sent them over there. ::Yeah. Yeah, you are.::

 

It was dark enough outside that the less appealing parts of the city were concealed by shadows, and you couldn’t tell the look on the faceplates of passing mechs until they were right by you. It suited Ratchet just fine. Shadows seemed to fit the day.

He contemplated transforming into his alt mode and driving home, but decided against it. Walking had its own value, and the medic alt mode always got too much attention. Besides, he needed the time to think. Ironhide would probably say that that was the last thing he needed and that he should stop wallowing and start doing, but Ironhide had other things on his processor at the moment.

Thank Primus for that.

He set off at a slow but determined pace, taking the easiest route back to base. Iacon was still pretty, still home, but it was starting to show the wear and tear that war and too many inhabitants could put on a city. It was enough to make Ratchet frown, and he blamed the Decepticons with all his spark.

He blamed them for everything these days.

It hadn’t been a bad battle really, as battles went. Barely more than a skirmish. Hear the klaxon, see the troops off, listen to the comms going between troops and command, cheer when the snipers shot the Seekers out of the sky, wait anxiously for the returning victors.

Prepare for the inevitable. Two berths, closer to each other than most of the others, close enough that the mechs on them could touch each other if they so chose. With no machinery between them, so the mechs on them could see each other at all times. Set up in the end of the medbay, so the mechs didn’t have to be disturbed in their inevitable convalescence.

Ratchet had thought he’d been ready. And he had, for treating them at least. Because in the end, the twins hadn’t been slagged any more than usual. Certainly not enough to worry him – he’d seen Sunstreaker pull through clean shots to his spark casing and Sideswipe with most of his limbs arriving on a separate gurney, already graying. This wasn’t anywhere near that bad.

But it was bad enough.

Sideswipe had needed transfusions, since the shots that had peppered his abdomen had punctured his tank and caused leaks. Both his shoulders needed careful reassembly, stripped wires and torn lines repaired, broken gears and cabling replaced, struts welded. The red twin had been wrestling with a tetrajet, it seemed, and paid the price with his rotator cuffs. But at least he was awake, joking and swearing at Ratchet with equal abandon, grinning one minute and snarling the next, and cursing the Decepticons, their carriers’ lineage, their sires’ lineage and the hole they crawled out of until Ratchet had muted his vocalizer. And even after that, the frontliner had been running his mouth silently. But he’d looked at Ratchet with trust in his optics.

Sunstreaker… Sunstreaker always managed to get himself slagged up worse than one would expect. He never held back, not in anything, and that intensity was both his best and worst trait. Like when it caused him to throw himself at a triple-changer. Or jump onto a tetrajet’s back and hanging on for dear life, tearing and pulling at wires and cables until his ride crashed to the ground and took him with it.

This time, he’d been crushed.

Ratchet didn’t know how. He didn’t ask, and no one told him. It made no difference to the work required.  His torso was okay, thankfully, but his frame from the hips down was a mess. Someone had clamped the major energon lines before he leaked out, but Ratchet would need to remove all the external plating and rebuild the golden twin’s legs from the inside. Delicate, finicky work, requiring all his concentration, and needing to be done in a series of repairs, each new layer only doable when the previous one had set.

Sunstreaker would be in for a long stint in the medbay. Sideswipe, too, since Ratchet never could manage to throw the red twin out when the golden one was still there.

Still, he was at least online. And would be functional given some time. The injuries, horrific as they were, hadn’t been what had thrown Ratchet for a loop.

No.

That had been when he removed the first layer of Sunstreaker’s thigh plating to find the weld lines and half-healed injuries from just a couple of orns ago.

And his hands had started shaking.

He didn’t know why that had hit him so hard. He knew they went to battle still injured – pit, he was the one who sent them out there half the time. With the Decepticons moving towards Iacon every day, there just wasn’t time for capable fighters to lie around waiting for injuries to heal up all the way before going back out to fight. Part of Ratchet’s job was to get them fight-worthy.

Not healed. Not in perfect condition.

Fight-worthy.

Meaning, make sure their lines didn’t break apart on their own when they were out there. That their struts and plating could withstand most of what would coming at them. That they wouldn’t leak out from old internal injuries before having the chance to get some new ones.

He knew that.

Still, seeing the weld-lines angling across the golden twin’s main femoral strut from where an energon blade nearly took his leg off in the battle that Ratchet was _still_ cleaning the energon out of his finger joints after…

He didn’t know what to feel. So he’d panicked.

Oh, he finished the first of the delicate repairs first, once he got his hands back under control. And he made sure no one was in critical condition, and that whatever repairs that were left could wait. But after that, he went back to his room and went to pieces in the wash rack.

And that’s how Ironhide had found him. His friend had known, somehow, that Ratchet was in trouble. That he needed help. So he’d used his own override code on the medic’s quarters, and walked in to find him shaking and sobbing in the flowing cold solvent.

It had taken some time to talk him back together. And then Ironhide had decided that Ratchet needed a break away from base.

Not that it had helped that much. But at least his hands had stopped shaking.

Ratchet took a left turn, crossing the open road in front of an old building that had once held a filial of the Iacon Archives. The air felt heavy, oppressive, and he knew he had to get inside before the rains started. Pity the mech left outside on a night like tonight, when the acid rain would burn through armored plating and protoform alike. Thankfully, it wasn’t so bad yet that there were mechs having to spend their nights in the street. There may be both two and three frames to a berth, if one could be found, but still all of Iacon’s population had shelter of sorts.

That wouldn’t last. As the Decepticons pushed closer to the capital, the influx of refugees would increase and shelter would be hard to find.

Mechs would start dying in the streets.

Not that he could focus on that now. It was bad enough inside his head today, he didn’t need to add to it.

He walked up to the entrance, pinging his code to get inside. The first drops of rain hit the ground as the door closed behind him.

The hallways were empty and silent this late in the cycle. Ratchet treasured the solitude as he made his way down to medbay, enjoying the fact that in here, at least for now, he could forget about the war. Walking in silence like this, he felt as if he was somehow suspended – he’d seen the war outside, and he would see it again in the twins’ resting frames in a moment, but right here, right now, there was peace. Even if it was the peace that came from the brief absence of any other living being.

The medbay was empty, and seemed deserted. Not the case, of course – Ratchet knew the medic on call was holed up in the office in the back, keeping an alert audial out for the monitors hooked up to the two patients still there.

There were just the two of them, naturally. As usual in the skirmishes they’d seen recently, no one else had gotten slagged to such a degree that they needed to stay overnight in medbay. That would probably change when the blasted Decepticons got closer to Iacon. But for now…

For now, Ratchet pulled up a chair, sitting down between the ends of the two berths, looking from the red twin to the golden one and back until he was satisfied that they were as he had left them: deep in stasis with stable vitals.

“Nice to see you two glitches didn’t wreck my medbay while I was gone,” he says wryly, quietly, into the silence. “Not that you can get up to much right now. Neither of you are exactly mobile. Then again,” he added, thinking back, “it’s not like that ever stopped you.”

They didn’t reply, of course. Mechs in stasis never did.

Which was why he felt comfortable talking to them. They couldn’t hear him, and they wouldn’t remember.

“You’re going to be the end of me at some point,” he sighed, running a hand across his helm. “You’re not _careful_. You don’t take care of yourselves – well, aside from the obvious,” he snorted, eyeing Sunstreaker’s finish. Even now, when he was half smashed to smithereens and covered in stains and dents, it gleamed under the filth and dust. “You don’t take backup. You don’t hesitate. You don’t _think_.” One red hand moved to rest on the red twin’s berth, near his foot. “And I don’t know what we would do without you. So please don’t get slagged up bad enough that I can’t fix you. I’d rather keep you around functional, if you don’t mind.”

The only response was the beeping of the monitors, telling him that Sunstreaker was stable and out of danger, that Sideswipe’s repaired tank was healing nicely. As it should be – Ratchet had fixed it himself, after all.

The other red hand moved up to gently touch Sunstreaker’s mangled right foot. Ratchet had disabled the sensory receptors, of course, or the golden twin would have been in a lot of pain. Sunstreaker wouldn’t feel it, but the medic still kept his touch gentle, soft.

“I set up Ironhide with a pair of twin pleasurebots tonight,” Ratchet murmured. “They came to me, first – I don’t know why. Maybe they thought I had lots of credits, being a medic. They were nice, really… Polite, pleasant, knew how to behave and how not to behave. But I looked at them, and even though you look absolutely nothing alike, I was reminded of you two.” Gentle red fingers moved on crimson and gold leg plating. “Mainly because they were so young. They’re going to get caught up in this war, and they won’t know what to do about it.” He sighed, pulling his hands back. “At least you knew what to do. You had a valuable skill set, you could protect yourselves.” A small half-smile made its way onto his faceplates. “I suppose it’s up to us to protect them.” Leaning forward, he let the berths support his weight as he stood up. “Like you protect us. Like I make sure you’re okay.”

He pushed the chair away quietly, gave each twin a gentle pat. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.” Then he walked out of medbay and across the hall to his own quarters.

 

He didn’t see the slight glow of pale blue as Sideswipe’s half-open optics followed him to the door.


	2. Sunstreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunstreaker knows his limitations. Why is it so difficult for the other Autobots to do the same?

_Pass me some of that fine high-grade_

_Let me become unmade_

_Something to recharge on_

_It'll be a long night_

_And a hard defrag_

_\- Kaizers Orchestra: Drøm hardt (author's translation and adaptation) -_

 

“…I think I might be in love with you.”

Sunstreaker pulled himself from the brink of recharge with a force of will normally reserved for battle. “Say what, now?”

She grinned, resting her chin on his chest plates. “I said I think I might be in love with you, slag-head.”

He grunted at the familiar nickname. “And here I thought you were supposed to be intelligent.”

She snorted, taking it as a joke. “Please. They moved me from damage-control to damage-causing because I’ve got a Wheeljack-y tendency to create havoc. That sound intelligent to you?” She leaned in, kissed his cheekplate softly. “I’ve got to go, I have the next shift. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sun.”

He watched her walk away, the sway in her hips doing pleasant things to his still-tingling circuitry even with his thoughts still stalling over what she’d said. As she closed the door behind her, he sat up on the berth with a huff, all ideas of recharge pushed from his systems by her words.

Pit-spawned femme. Why did she have to go and make everything so complicated?

Wasn’t it enough that they were having a good time?

“Do you love her?” Sideswipe asked. His red brother was leaning up against the open doorframe leading to the adjacent room. He’d been in there the whole time, Sunstreaker knew – the brothers had no secrets from each other. They couldn’t, with that bond. So Sideswipe had both felt and heard everything Sunstreaker had done with the femme today, and spent half the time wanting to join them.

“Of course I don’t,” Sunstreaker scoffed. “You know that.”

“Ah, yes,” Sideswipe said, grinning and walking over to stand in front of his twin. “The great Sunstreaker doesn’t love. He goes through mechs and femmes like… like energon blades through plating, or something, leaving nothing but grief and broken hearts in his wake.”

Sunstreaker snorted, amused despite himself. “Remind me to never let you think you have a future in poetry.”

“I know, I know,” Sideswipe grinned that infuriating grin of his, stepping even further into Sunstreaker’s personal space. “You’re the artist, I’m the trickster.” He stretched, his arms going up over his head and quite intentionally showing off his frame, and Sunstreaker felt his circuits tingling again.

“What tricks are you up to now?” Sunstreaker grinned ferally, letting his hands trace the red plating on display in front of him.

“I am showing you what you’re missing while playing with her,” Sideswipe replied loftily. “So you have something to think about while I’m on duty.”

Sunstreaker growled and pulled his brother closer by the hips. “And when are you supposed to be on duty?”

“In three breems,” Sideswipe smirked, letting one hand trace a golden helm-vent.

“That’s just long enough,” Sunstreaker grinned wickedly, pulling his brother down. “Why don’t you show me what I’ll be missing,” he paused as a brief lick to a helm vent caused him to shudder, “in greater detail?”

 

Three breems proved to be exactly long enough for that. But even with Sideswipe’s dedicated attention still tingling in his systems, Sunstreaker had been unable to recharge. He couldn’t help dwelling on what the blasted femme had said.

It was slagging frustrating.

Sure, she was attractive, more so than most, or he wouldn’t have let her in his berth. There was something about her lines that just drew him in.

But the same could be said for Perceptor, for frag’s sake, and for Bluestreak, and pit, even Wheeljack. Sunstreaker had a thing for beautiful lines, and no few of the Autobots had them.

Not to mention the blasted ‘Cons. Those Seekers were the epitome of beauty – apart from himself, of course.

But none of that meant that he necessarily wanted to spend his time with any of them. And love them?

No. Because Sideswipe was right.

Sunstreaker didn’t love. Sunstreaker _appreciated_.

And now, because Flare Up couldn’t stop blurring the slagging lines, he would have to let her go.

And the Autobots as a whole would probably hate him for it.

Suddenly furious with everything from Flare Up to himself to the Autobots in general, he stormed out of his quarters and headed for the rec room.

This late, closing to the middle of the third shift, the place was abandoned. That suited the golden twin just fine. He didn’t come here for the company.

Primus, he’d have killed for some high-grade, though. Had, too, in the past. But with this cursed rationing, he might as well wish for wings. Prowl had struck down on Sideswipe’s last homemade still like a vengeful warlord on a rampage, so they hadn’t dared to set that up again.

Boring old mid-grade energon it was.

Having found himself a cube, he wandered over to the windows and stood staring out with his back to the room.

Iacon was dark, the acid rain that had plagued it over the last few orns having destroyed a lot of the already failing light fixtures. Sure, there were still glowing globes and strips of light in the wealthier, more sheltered neighborhoods, and the bordering wall was still lit – and patrolled, from what he could see from here. But large parts of the city had no external lights anymore, their fixtures and globes broken by acid and vandalism.

It had its own beauty, in a way.

Sunstreaker could appreciate that, too.

“Admirin’ the view?” The voice was grumpy, familiar, and unwelcome. Sunstreaker sneered.

“Somethin’ jump up yer tailpipe and die?” Ironhide asked, watching Sunstreaker from the corner of his optic while nursing his own cube.

“Your sense of humor,” Sunstreaker retorted, still with an ugly look on his face.

Ironhide sighed, and turned to lean against the windowsill. “This has to do with Flare Up.” He snorted at the snarl directed his way by the golden twin. “Don’ gimme that. I’ve known you an’ yer brother longer than anyone cares to remember. I can tell when somethin’s up.”

Sunstreaker shook his head, still frowning. “None of your business.”

“It’s the same thing again, ain’t it,” Ironhide said quietly. “Ya dabbled for long enough that she started expectin’ more than she’s gettin’.”

Sunstreaker ex-vented heavily, hiding behind his snarl and his energon cube.

“Did ya at least let her down gently?” the red mech asked.

Sunstreaker shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance to, yet. She told me, and then she had to report for duty.”

Ironhide sighed again. “Lad, do us all a favor this time and do it gently. Be nice – I know it’s hard for ya, but try. That way, ya might escape the fallout that the last couple of times caused.”

Sunstreaker winced. He didn’t need a reminder of that, thanks. When he’d dumped Moonracer he hadn’t been able to show his face in the rec room for deca-cycles. “So what do I tell her?”

“Beats me.” Ironhide snorted a chuckle. “I’ve only had to do it the once and that was mutual. I woulda thought ya’d be the expert by now, ya’ve done it so many times.”

“I always frag it up,” Sunstreaker said disgustedly, and he wasn’t sure right now if the disgust was for himself or the entire slagging situation. Maybe a bit of both.

“Then do the opposite of what ya usually do,” Ironhide replied. “Maybe that’ll work.” He straightened back up, walked towards the exit. As he passed, he patted Sunstreaker’s shoulder. It probably wasn’t meant to be patronizing, but it sure felt like it. “Remember, lad. Gently.”

Sunstreaker snorted as he heard the pedesteps fade away behind him.

Gently.

He didn’t know how to be gentle. That was for the likes of Wheeljack or Prime, or Bumblebee. Sunstreaker was anything but gentle – he was intense, he was rough, he was passionate about the few things he cared about (mainly his brother and his finish, and not always in that order), and he was violent. And he owned up to all that. He knew he was an antisocial, occasionally unpredictable, easily triggered, beautiful glitch. And he was fine with that.

Why people he got into the berth with kept wanting a different kind of connection was beyond him. If he was them, he’d want as little to do with him as possible beyond the berth. (Or wall, or supply closet, or the occasional desk… Fun could be had anywhere.) Because it wasn’t like they would be happy with him in the long run. The only one who was, at least happy enough, was Sideswipe. Sunstreaker knew that, too, and he’d accepted it a good while ago. He had his brother. He didn’t need anyone else.

Especially when Sideswipe was so decidedly naughty as he had been today…

There was that tingle again. Seriously, why would he ever want anyone else? Elegant lines or not. Particularly when Sideswipe was almost as beautiful as he himself was.

Visualizing red plating, strong white thighs and a mischievous grin, Sunstreaker emptied and dispersed his cube and went back to his quarters. The whole thing with Flare Up could wait until tomorrow.

 

He managed to round her up between shifts, just before he was going on-shift and just after she was done with hers. She was in the rec room, getting her cube, and smiling brightly at him as he walked in.

“Hey, Sun!”

“Hey, Flare,” he replied quietly. “D’you have a moment?”

“Sure,” she said, nodding at a free table in the corner. “Sit with me?”

“Not here,” he replied, shaking his head. That’s part of what had gotten so screwy with Moonracer. Note to self: do not dump anyone in a public space. “Your quarters?”

“Firestar’s on duty, so that works,” she replied, her smiled growing impossibly wide. “Come on.”

He walked a step or so behind her, partly to keep her from reaching for his hand (which she did more often than he liked), and partly because it gave him a very nice view of that pert aft. In a few breems it wouldn’t be his to admire any longer, so he might as well make the best of it when he had the chance.

She coded the door open and walked inside, grinning cheekily at him over her shoulder. Apparently, she was expecting something else to happen, and he would have to disappoint her.

Slag it.

Or maybe… but no. Do the opposite, Ironhide had said. Fragging her first and dumping her after would not be the opposite, it would be the same. And it hadn’t worked very well for him back then.

Besides, he always had Sideswipe for the fragging part. He could wait for later.

Flare Up put her cube down on the small desk in the corner, and turned to let her hands run across his chest. “What can I do for you, Sun?”

Primus, but she was making it difficult. Still, it had to be done.

So he gathered her wrists in his hands and pulled her down to sit next to him on the berth. “Flare, we need to talk.”

She pursed her lips, and he could see now that she knew what was coming. “Ah, the dreaded talk. You know, I was warned about you.” She pulled her hands out of his. “They say you love’em and leave’em. That true?”

He snorted. Warned about him, huh?

Then why in pit hadn’t she listened?

“Not exactly,” he replied at last. “I frag ‘em and leave ‘em. No love involved.”

“You sure?” she asked, leaning her face towards him, her face positively sultry. “You haven’t really given us a chance yet.”

“I don’t love,” he grunted, leaning away. “You can’t change that.”

“Let me try,” she smirked, leaning towards him, her frame crowding him backwards. “I promise I can make it worth your while.” Her hands were suddenly all over his frame, dipping into crevices and stroking metal, her lips chasing his.

Damn her!

“Pit, femme!” he snarled, jumping up. “What part of “I don’t love” don’t you understand!? Slag it!”

She stood up then, angling her body just right to be delicious. “You haven’t tried to love me yet. I think you should.”

He stared at her. The femme was crazily insistent. “No,” he said finally. “I won’t ever fall in love with you, Flare Up. We had a good run, but I’m cutting it off now. For your sake.”

“For my sake?” she shrieked, suddenly furious and snarling at him, the change in temper fitting her name. “Slag you! This is all you, Sunstreaker, it has nothing to do with me! Get out!” She picked up a polish tin and threw it at him with Ratchet-like accuracy, denting his cheekplate and smearing his helm with the stuff. He raised his arms, backing up towards the door.

“All right, all right, don’t fry your processor!”

“Mute it!” she snarled. “You’re such a defect, Sunstreaker! Why in pit do you always throw away the good things? We could have been good! You slagging, arrogant glitch! You’re self-destructive!” Another tin flew – this time he managed to dodge it. “You’re so slagging blind! Can’t you see that you’re sabotaging yourself? Pit, Sun! We could have been good together!” All the air seemed to go out of her suddenly, and she sank back on the bed, coolant tears leaking from her optics. “We could have been good together.” Her voice was soft, broken, and as he watched she curled up in the berth and turned her back to him, her shoulder shaking. “Go away, Sunstreaker. I don’t want to see you again.”

He palmed the door shut and walked away, pulling a polishing cloth from subspace and wiping the polish off his helm. Somehow, he felt as though he had missed ‘gently’ by a truly epic distance. And he just knew that he would be in trouble with Firestar and the rest of Flare Up’s friends as soon as they learned of this.

He started his shift in a truly black mood. And since he was on comms duty, he wouldn’t even be allowed to shoot anything. Or kick anything. Or tear anyone’s plating out.

It was going to be a long shift.

-Sunny…-

He nearly snarled again, managing to reign in his temper through sheer force of will. As it was, Sideswipe – as always – got the brunt of his temper.

- _What?-_

-Your mood is foul enough to keep me from recharging, bro.-

Sunstreaker didn’t apologize. Not with words. But he sent a silent burst of affection – as much as he could manage at that point – through their bond.

-You talked to her.-

He didn’t reply to that either. Sideswipe knew.

-Sunstreaker?-

He sighed, out loud this time. –Yeah, Sideswipe?-

-You know I’ve got your back. Always.-

And that, right there, was why Sunstreaker would be content to have no one but his brother for the rest of their existence, if it came to that. Because Sides said stuff like that.

Sunstreaker could trust him.

The burst of affection this time was much stronger, and accompanied by longing – Sunstreaker wanted nothing more than to curl up next to his brother, burrowing against red plating and forgetting about the rest of the world.

-Thanks, Sides.-

-No problem.- He could _hear_ that lopsided grin.

-Now go recharge. I’ll see you later, bro.-

-Looking forward to it.-

And didn’t _that_ brighten his mood somewhat. He could tell from the bond that Sides was deep in recharge already, which meant that he would be awake when Sunstreaker came back later with energon for the both of them.

Yeah, he thought, focusing on his task again with a renewed vigor. He could manage with no one but Sideswipe. He didn’t need anyone else.

He didn’t.


	3. Ironhide

_You don't have to say you love me_

_Just be close at hand_

_You don't have to stay forever_

_I will understand_

_Believe me, believe me_

_That you don't have to love me_

_But believe me, I'll never tie you down_

_\- Elvis Presley: You don't have to say you love me -_

 

"That seems ta have gone well," Ironhide remarked, sharp optics focusing everywhere but on the tall mech next to him and the pink femme leaving his premises.

"Elita is magnificent," the Prime agreed. "As she has always been. I am lucky to have her by my side."

"Uh-huh," Ironhide replied wryly. "And will she stand by yer side?"

"She's fighting her own fight," the Prime sighed. "For now, that takes priority." A smile stole across his face, just in time for Ironhide to see it before the blast mask clicked back into place. "She did tell me she loved me, though."

"Good." Ironhide's tone was deliberately gruff. "Ya deserve no less."

“Thank you.” The Prime's hand gave his shoulder a squeeze. "And what about you, old friend?"

Ironhide glanced at him again before resuming his vigilant watch. Even here, in the Prime's personal quarters, safety wasn't guaranteed. "What about me, Prime?"

"You know what I mean." Another affectionate shoulder squeeze. "You shouldn't be alone, Ironhide."

He didn't reply to that. After all, what could he say?

"Elita has a femme under her command that she wants you to meet," the Prime continued, oblivious. "Chromia is much like you."

Ironhide snorted. "I know of Chromia. That femme is a firecracker." He shook his head. "Her and me, we'd get along like a house on fire, and not in a good way. It would be hot and bright with nothin’ left but ashes."

The Prime laughed. "You may be right. Still, there must be someone out there for you, don't you think?"

Ironhide grinned. "Are ya indicating that I should find someone ta warm my berth? Because there is a pair of twin pleasurebots who keep askin’ me back."

The Prime stuttered, embarrassingly decent mech that he was. "Well, that - I mean - no, not just berthwarmers," he chuckled. Ironhide knew those cheeks were heating up under the mask. "You deserve someone who really cares for you, Ironhide."

Ironhide hesitated. Sometimes he wondered if the Prime really was as blind as he appeared. But then the taller mech looked at him with those guileless optics, and Ironhide shoved all his doubts and hopes to the back of his mind again.

"Don't worry about me, Prime," he replied, shaking his head. "Not all of us are lucky enough ta have someone who loves us back. I’m content as it is."

Prime looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Very well, my friend. I won’t push if you don’t want me to.”

“There’s no need for pushin’.” Ironhide grinned. “I’m good, Prime.”

“I wish you'd call me Optimus," the Prime said softly. "At least when we're in private like this.There’s no need for such formality. We’re old friends."

"The day may yet come when I do," Ironhide replied. He nodded towards the entrance. "I see the next shift has arrived."

"So it seems," the Prime replied, acknowledging the twins' salute with a nod and a smile. "Do you have plans for your off-shift?"

Ironhide shrugged. "Refuel. Talk ta some friends. Then there's a target series with my designation on it down at the range."

"Fun," the Prime chuckled. "Enjoy your free time, my friend. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ironhide saluted lazily. "Good night, Prime."

He nodded at the twins as he walked past them. They were among the few he trusted to guard the Prime aside from himself, Jazz and a handful of others. He knew the Prime would be in capable hands, but it still hurt to walk away.

Of course, that wasn’t just because it was his responsibility to keep the Prime safe.

He ambled towards the rec room. He needed to refuel, but he was in no hurry to arrive. It would be packed at this point because of the shift change, and he wasn’t tempted by the prospect. He’d rather have some time alone to clear his head.

So seeing Ratchet walking towards him with a slight smirk and two energon cubes in his hands felt like a fragging gift from Primus.

“Come on,” the medic said. “Blaster says the officer’s lounge is clear, and he’s leaving as soon as we get there.”

“Sounds perfect.” Ironhide relieved Ratchet of one of the cubes. “How did ya know?”

Ratchet gave him a sympathetic look. “You just came off duty. Guarding him.”

Nothing more needed to be said. They knew each other too well and had had that same conversation too many times.

They walked in silence to the officer’s lounge. Blaster was holding the door for them, clearly about to leave.

“G’night, mechs.” He smiled, but it was a tired expression. “I’ve locked the place down for you. Won’t be anyone in there to interrupt.” His optics met Ironhide’s.

Blaster knew, Ironhide realized. He’d never told the mech, and he knew Ratchet hadn’t either, so somehow Blaster had figured it out by himself.

Meeting the comms mech’s optics was like looking into a mirror. Ironhide recognized every single emotion Blaster was trying to hide.

 “Hang in there,” Blaster said softly as Ironhide moved to walk past him. “It gets easier.”

 “Thanks,” he replied gruffly. “Let me know if ya need anything.”

Blaster saluted lazily – Ironhide was sure it was an act - and shut the door behind him.

Ratchet dropped into one of the sofas. “So how is he? Optimus?”

“His usual self.” Ironhide sat down heavily next to his friend. “Elita was there tonight. That always cheers him up.”

“And drags you down,” Ratchet countered.

Ironhide just grunted. It was the truth, and they both knew it. No point in arguing.

They’d done that too many times to count, too.

Ratchet looked at him over the rim of his cube. “You know, you could tell him.”

Ironhide snorted. “An’ what good would that do?”

“You don’t know until you try,” Ratchet insisted gently. “As it is, I worry for you, Ironhide. You’re tormenting yourself.”

“But at least I’m here ta be worried about,” Ironhide said. “If I told him, he’d be feelin’ guilty because he don’t feel the same. And then he’d look at me with those sad optics. I can’t take that, so I’d transfer away, because that would be easier fer the both of us. No.” He drank deeply. “I’d rather be here, where I can keep an optic on him, than havin’ ta worry about him from afar.”

“I won’t push,” Ratchet said, despite having done just that on a multitude of occasions. “But I still worry.” He smirked. “And it’s no point telling me not to.”

“I’m holdin’ on,” Ironhide replied. “Ain’t better, ain’t worse.”

“That’s something, at least.”

Quiet descended again while they finished their cubes.

“So Elita was there, huh?”

“Yup.” Ironhide dispersed the cube. “She loves him. So he says.”

“And he loves her.” Ratchet sighed. “It’s clear as day.”

“He does,” Ironhide confirmed.

Ratchet looked at him again. “And you love him.”

“Yup. It’s an epic mess.” Ironhide frowned. “And don’t go sayin’ that too loud.”

“Blaster cleared the room.” Ratchet’s voice was soft. “No one will hear.” But he let it go.

After a moment, Ironhide chuckled. It was as much an attempt to lighten the mood and change the subject as an actual expression of mirth, but he knew Ratchet would let it go. “Prime said Elita wants ta set me up with Chromia.”

Ratchet snorted a laugh. “Primus! That would be a disaster.”

“I know. I tried ta say that, too. But he’s too infatuated with the idea of match-makin’ to actually listen.” He shook his head wryly. “Remember when he tried ta get ya ta relax by arrangin’ that date with Wheeljack?”

Ratchet laughed. “I’d have paid good credits to see the look on his face when he realized that he hadn’t been as sneaky as he thought.”

“And that you two already knew each other,” Ironhide agreed. “Jazz showed me an image capture. He wouldn’t stop chortlin’ fer two whole days.”

“Jackie and I had fun that night, though.” Ratchet leaned back into the seat. “But dating him would have been like dating you.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine that either.” Ironhide grinned. “While we’re on that topic. How’re the twins?”

“The twins?” Ratchet smirked. “Those young, dainty things? I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

“Not them.” Ironhide smiled and shook his head at what had to be a deliberate misunderstanding. “The other pair. Our two. The trouble-makers.”

“You mean Sideswipe and Sunstreaker?” Ratchet frowned. “I don’t know, you saw them last, didn’t you? Weren’t they supposed to have this shift?”

“Ya’re right, they are. And I did.”

Ratchet kept frowning, but Ironhide let it lie. It was kind of good to know that the Prime wasn’t the only blind one on base. It made Ironhide feel a tiny bit better.

He sighed and stood. “Thanks fer this, Ratch. But I need ta move. I have time booked on the shootin’ range.”

Ratchet waved him off. “Go. Blow something up. Primus knows it’s how you warriors cope. I’m on third shift, so I’ll take a nap right here.” He twisted to lie flat on the couch. “Good luck on the range.”

“Pleasant recharge, old mech,” Ironhide teased.

“Who’re you calling old, you decrepit pile of rust,” Ratchet grumbled good-naturedly. “Turn down the lights on your way out, will you?”

“Sure.” _And I’ll make sure ta tell the next responsible bot I meet that ya’re in here and need ta be woken up in time for yer shift._

 

Ironhide raised the rifle, aimed, fired. Moved on to the next target, aimed, fired, then moved on again.

It was cathartic.

“So what’s got you all upset?”

Ironhide frowned as he shifted his aim. “I ain’t upset.”

Kup snorted. “Sure you’re not.”

Aim, fire, move on to the next target. “I ain’t. It’s just target practice.”

“Sure it is. Lad, I ain’t never seen anyone shoot like that unless they were majorly pissed at someone or something. So spill. What’s riding you?”

Fire, fire, fire, and the triplicate target was down as well. “Nothin’.”

Kup didn’t say anything. He just waited. Ironhide reckoned the old warrior had enough practice with that to outwait Primus himself.

And, predictably, Ironhide caved first.

“We’re at war. Ain’t that enough for some aggressive shootin’?”

“For some,” Kup allowed. “For Cliffjumper. The twins. Prowl. Not for you, I don’t think. Not this time.” He grinned around his cygar. “You’re shooting like it’s personal.”

Ironhide sighed and lowered the rifle. “Well, maybe I’m just angry with myself.”

“That so?” Kup mused. He walked over to the control panel. “Then I figure you need the Prime’s run.”

“The Prime’s run?” Ironhide watched as all the targets reconfigured.

“The Prime’s run,” Kup confirmed. “Start with Reflector over there, then work yourself up through the ranks by order of nasty.”

In front of Ironhide, the targets settled. Starscream and his trine were darting above him, solid light forms surprisingly lifelike. Soundwave and his pit-spawn were _everywhere_. Shockwave was hovering in the back, and Megatron was in the center, roaring.

It was quite the impressive who’s who of Decepticon command.

“Prime would never do this one.” Ironhide was absolutely certain of that. The Prime was an effective warrior, but he wasn’t vindictive. He would never use his enemies’ images as target practice.

“Not him, no,” Kup agreed. “Sideswipe coined it. We keep adding targets whenever Optimus takes someone important down single-handedly on the battlefield.”

Ironhide chuckled at that. His Prime was a formidable warrior. It was enough to warm a spark.

“Then there shoulda been three Megatrons at least, and most of the others should be there twice or more. But I’ll take what I can get.”

He raised his rifle again, choosing target after target. For all that it looked impressive, the targets weren’t harder to take down.

He saved Megatron for last and took him out with his cannons just for the fun of it.

“Not bad,” Kup praised. “I’ve seen better, but not bad at all.”

“I ain’t a sniper,” Ironhide said, putting the rifle back.

“No, you’re not. You’re a warrior.” Kup gave him an assessing look. “I’ll say our Prime is in good hands.”

“That’s the idea.” _Elita’s hands, though, not mine. I’m just the shield._

“I also think he doesn’t know what he’s got in you,” Kup said shrewdly.

“He’s got a loyal guard,” Ironhide replied, taking care to keep his tone neutral. “Someone who’ll step between him and danger when it’s necessary.”

“Yeah, I figure that’s about what he thinks,” Kup agreed. “But that’s not all.”

“Ya see much for an ancient pile of rust,” Ironhide retorted, more resigned than truly angry. He was too tired to be upset.

Plus, Kup was a friend. He asked because he cared.

“Watch who you’re calling rusty, you worn out pile of slagged ammo,” Kup shot back, grinning.

Well. Somewhere deep down, he cared. Probably.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” he sighed. “It ain’t like it’s gonna change anything.”

“Do you _know_ that?” Kup’s look was penetrating.

“I work closer with him than most. I know.” Ironhide turned the solid light generators off. “He’s asked Elita to bond with him.”

“Mecha change their minds.”

“Not that much.” Ironhide walked past his old mentor and headed for the door.

“Might.”

Ironhide stopped, but didn’t turn back. “Ya’ve been around too long to believe that, Kup. Ya know that not everyone gets a happy endin’.”

“That’s as may be.” Kup didn’t look too happy about agreeing with him, though. “So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing I can do that doesn’t end bad.” He half-turned, leaned against the wall. “Ain’t gonna say anything that’ll hurt him. And this will.”

“You know him better than me.”

“I know him better than most.”

“Yeah. Guess you do.” Kup walked up, reached to pat his shoulder. “If it gets to be too much, get out of there. There’s no shame in self-preservation.” Sharp blue optics met Ironhide’s. “Give me a call if you need an out. I can always find somewhere for you.”

“I know. I appreciate it.” He straightened away from the touch. “Thanks.”

He was already walking away, only barely catching Kup’s reply before the door closed behind him.

“Sure thing, lad.”

 

Recharge would be the next logical step, but he already knew it wouldn’t work. He had too many thoughts running rampant in his processor.

::Sideswipe.::

::Sir?::

::Sit rep.::

::It’s quiet, sir. He’s in recharge.::

::Good. Hope it stays that way. Ironhide out.::

_Slag._

The shooting had helped, but then Kup had ruined everything again. And now it was too late in the shift, so there was no one for him to spar with either. And he couldn’t afford to keep going back to the other set of twins – not just because of the credits, but because they were getting attached.

Also, whenever he was with them, they felt sort of wrong. Too short, too slight, too gentle.

Not that he was ever going to get to curl up with the frame he wanted - the frame that was bigger than his, with that gentle field that always pulsed warmly at him, with those strong arms sheltering him.

He might as well give that up right now.

His berth was too large, leaving too much room for tossing and turning. He managed most nights, but he knew he couldn’t manage tonight.

And Ratchet was on shift.

There was only one thing for it. He changed direction, heading for the monitor room.

The two ‘Bots inside both looked up when he arrived. Smokescreen grinned at him. “Hey, Ironhide. What brings you here?”

“Figured I’d give one of ya two lucky slaggers the shift off,” Ironhide grunted. “So whattaya say? You want off, Smokey? Or should I let Hound off?”

The Praxian glanced at his compatriot with an easy smile. “Let Hound off. Mirage just got back from a mission.”

“Say no more.” Ironhide walked over and poked the green scout in the shoulder. “Move it, Hound. Get outta here.”

The smile he got in return was pure gratitude. “Thanks, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, don’t ya got someone waiting fer ya?”

 Hound just grinned and saluted before walking out.

Ironhide settled in the vacant chair. He could feel Smokescreen glancing at him.

Kid was way too observant.

“Optics on the screen, soldier.”

“Yes sir.”

The silence had barely settled before his comm rang.

::Ratch. How’s your shift?::

::Oh, fine. If you overwork yourself, I’ll have you carted here and put into stasis, then magnetize you to the ceiling.::

::I’m fine. Can’t recharge tonight, figured it was better ta be workin’ than tossin’ and turnin’ all night.::

A sharp sigh. ::Fine. But you will recharge through first shift tomorrow.::

Yeah, they’d have to see about that.

::Pleasant shift, Ratchet.::

Another sigh. ::You too, ‘Hide. You too.::

He disconnected and settled back down to watch the monitors.

There was not much else to do.


	4. Blaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this one, I'd recommend that you do listen to Alan Walker's The Spectre if you haven't heard it already. This chapter was fueled by that song.

_Hello, hello_

_Nice to meet you, voice inside my head_

_Hello, hello_

_I believe you, how can I forget_

_Is this a place that I call home_

_To find what I've become_

_Walk along the path unknown_

_We live, we love, we lie_

_Deep in the dark I don't need the light_

_There's a ghost inside me_

_It all belongs to the other side_

_We live, we love, we lie_

_-Alan Walker: The spectre -_

 

Blaster looked out at the crowd. It was much smaller than it used to be, back before everything had gone to Pit. The Autobots and very few Neutrals in front of him danced to forget - to lose themselves, to be untethered for a while, to feel something other than war and fear and terror.

He understood the sentiment. Tonight, the rhythm was in him.

He vented along with the beat, moved with the pitch, tweaked and cajoled the sound system in front of him, until the music was all he could feel. The yawning loss inside of him was covered up with sound. The vibrations of the music tingled along his plating, and he lost himself in it.

For tonight, nothing else existed.

For tonight, the run-down derelict club right in the more heavily bombed parts of Iacon was the place to be.

“Are you ready?” he bellowed, watching as dozens if not tens of dozens lifted their arms into the air. The jury-rigged strobe lights danced across plating in every color, illuminating dents and weld marks more often than not, but tonight that didn’t matter.

Tonight, they danced.

“Then let me hear you ROAR!” Blaster hollered, raising his arms. “Come on, Iacon! LET! ME! HEAR! YOU!”

The cacophony rose, and the sound had an almost physical quality, like it could pick him up and carry him away. He could feel the heavy bass beat in the floor under his pedes, and was briefly glad there was nothing under the club but solid ground.

Well, as solid as anything was these days.

No thinking about that. He set the discant melody to play again, losing himself in it.

 

All good things must come to an end, though. Mecha who had the early shifts began leaving. Then the ones too overcharged to stand. Then the cheap high-grade ran out, and as the mech behind the bar nodded at him, Blaster reluctantly dimmed the strobe lights.

“Iacon!” he whispered, the microphone in front of him amplifying his voice a thousandfold.

_“Iacon, it’s been a blast, just like it was in the past, my mechs, but everything passes_

_– and like the working masses that we are, we can’t go far anymore, not like before,_

_so let it end now, my friend, how good it’s been_

_for just tonight, to do this right, forget the fight,_

_forget the war, who’s keeping score, not me,_

_it’s how it’s supposed to be,_

_it’s how it’s supposed to go, I know,_

_you know, we know how this is,_

_we know the music’s bliss, so take that with ya, make it fit ya,_

_let it be a shield against the dark, the lack of spark,_

_and I will see you again, my friend, this ain’t the end._

_This ain’t the end.”_

He blinked the lights once, then twice more. “Iacon, you’re amazing. Blaster out.”

He put the first track he’d played on repeat, and watched as what was left of the crowd began to filter out.

Suddenly he felt incredibly empty. His limbs were heavy, weighed down almost, and he just wanted to leave.

Couldn’t leave yet though. He had to pack down his equipment.

He pinged the mech behind the bar. Maybe there was some form of fuel still to be had. ::Hey, Twister. Any chance there’s any midgrade left?::

The two-wheeler looked up at him apologetically. ::Sorry, Blaster. I had saved you some, but it’s gone now.::

Blaster waved a hand. ::Don’t worry about it. I’m not critically low or anything. Hey, thanks for helping out. You can leave when you’ve packed up, ‘kay?::

Twister frowned. ::I’m supposed to escort you back, you know.::

Blaster grinned. It took some work. ::That’s okay. I have a friend coming to meet me.::

Twister gave him a knowing grin. ::Gotcha. I’ll head out as soon as the last of these guys are gone, then.::

It didn’t take long. The last mech lying on the floor was dragged out by two of his friends, and Twister gave Blaster a quick nod before he too was gone.

The solitude was deafening. Blaster turned the music down. Down, but not off – he couldn’t take it being off right now. Then he began the boring task of dismantling the strobe lights and packing them in their crates, stowing the crates on the freight sled for easy transport.

He was down to the last crate of lights when the music changed.

It wasn’t much. The discant moved to a brief counterpoint, the rhythm skipped a beat that wasn’t there. It was enough to alert Blaster.

He thought he’d been lying to Twister about having a friend coming. In the past, it wouldn’t have been a lie; the same mech always waited for him after a show. But that didn’t happen anymore. The war had gotten in the way.

Except, it seemed, for tonight. Tonight apparently was just as much a flashback to better times as it had seemed.

Blaster stowed the crate, and walked towards the back of the room. There was a door there, leading to what had once been a generous backstage area with lounges and bars and now was just a generous pile of shattered glass and metal.

He was standing in the shadows, like he always had been. His frame just slightly taller and more solid than before, his posture tenser than usual, but still him.

Blaster knew he should have been careful. Many would have told him this could be a trap.

He didn’t believe it was, not even for a moment. He had nothing to fear from this mech.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Did you listen to the show?”

“Affirmative,” the soft monotone said. “Blaster: magnificent.”

“None of that,” Blaster pleaded, raising a hand to land on the other’s mask. “Not tonight. Please.”

The mask slid aside under his hand.

“Thank you,” Blaster breathed. He suddenly felt whole again, the yawning pit in his spark full of something he’d thought lost forever.

“Here,” Soundwave said, his voice overlaid with harmonics that made Blaster shiver. “You’re low on energon.”

Another trap, Jazz would have said. But Blaster simply lifted the cube to his mouth and drank deeply.

“Do you have some time?” Soundwave asked, that melodious voice almost timid. “Can you stay for a while?”

“For you, always,” Blaster replied. “I have to pack down my sound equipment, then I’m all yours.”

“Let me help,” Soundwave said, moving to go inside, but Blaster stopped him with a finger to his lips.

“No. You’re already taking a great risk, being here. I don’t want anyone to come back in and see you.” He leaned in, resting his forehead against Soundwave’s. “Give me a breem or so, then I’ll come back. There's a lounge corner back there that’s not too badly damaged.”

Soundwave nodded, moving back into the shadows, and Blaster walked back inside the dilapidated club.

He’d never packed down his set so fast.

When the sled was packed to capacity, every piece of equipment stored and secured, he slid it in behind an old half-wall that used to conceal a semi-private booth, and left it there to pick up later. It would be safe enough.

Soundwave took his hand when he stepped out into the gloom of the back entrance again, tugging him away from the building and over to a part of the ruins that looked slightly more stable than the rest. They ducked under a metal beam and slid past a fallen wall to the hollow space beneath.

The lounge seats were almost completely intact. Soundwave had clearly been out there just now, there were tracks in the dust from where he’d slid the two sofas together to create a berth of sorts.

“Where are the cassettes?” Blaster ran a finger down Soundwave’s transparent docking port.

“Ravage and Laserbeak are watching,” Soundwave replied. “The others are back with the Decepticons, supporting the subterfuge.”

“Mine are back on base as well, save one.” Blaster sent the command to open his dock and wake the cassette within. “He will enjoy seeing you.”

The large orange cat landed easily on the floor and turned towards Soundwave, pushing his head into the other’s hand.

::Soundwave. Creator.::

“Hello, Steeljaw,” Soundwave replied, his voice slightly staticky. “I am glad to see you looking so well.” He dropped to one knee and gathered up the cat-former, pressing his face against the warm metal of Steeljaw’s back. “I have missed you, dearest.”

::We’ve missed you, too, Creator.:: Steeljaw’s rough glossa licked Soundwave’s arm. ::Are the others alright?::

“They’re fine, sweetspark. They miss you all.”

“Ravage is here,” Blaster said softly, reaching out to stroke hos cassette’s back. “She’s waiting for you.”

Steeljaw grinned. ::Awesome. Then I’ll go run with my big sister tonight.:: He nipped lovingly at Soundwave’s fingers, then he was gone.

“They miss you a lot,” Blaster murmured as he stood. “They know not to ask, but I can feel it.”

“You’re missed as well,” Soundwave replied. He took Blaster’s hand, pulling him close. “All of you. Every moment. Will you give my love to them?”

“Of course. How long can you stay?” Blaster leaned in against that warm chest, felt the vibrations of Soundwave’s strong spark against his plating.

“I need to leave before first shift,” Soundwave replied. “I’m afraid it doesn’t give us much time, my love.”

“It’s enough.” Blaster kissed Soundwave’s fingertips, one by one. “I want your spike. And I want your spark.”

Soundwave nodded. “Like before.”

“Like before.” Blaster looked up as the visor clicked aside, those vibrant ruby optics glowing down at him. “I need that tonight. Please.” He pulled Soundwave back towards the makeshift berth. “I need you.”

“I’m yours.” Soundwave came willingly, kneeling between Blaster’s legs, kissing the plating covering his spark reverently. “Always.”

Their coupling was unhurried, familiar, intense, bittersweet, painful in its implications. Blaster wasn’t surprised to see tears flowing from Soundwave’s optics as he climaxed. He knew his own cheeks were wet.

Soundwave let his cassette dock shift aside, revealing the plating over his spark. Blaster echoed the motion, letting himself spiral open until the very core of him was revealed and lighting up Soundwave’s reverent face.

“You’re still so beautiful,” Soundwave murmured. “Still so perfect.”

“We didn’t change.” Blaster’s fingers traced over Soundwave’s cheek. “We didn’t. The causes did.”

“They did. But we won’t talk about that tonight.” Soundwave kissed the questing fingertips before lowering himself over Blaster’s prone frame. “Tonight is for us.”

“I love you,” Blaster gasped, the first few tendrils of their essences meeting and mixing. The motions and sensations were familiar.

Soundwave felt like coming home.

Blaster surrendered to it, letting himself drown in the beauty and solid comfort that was his mate, let himself revel in everything that Soundwave was. He could feel Soundwave doing the same, feel the spike still inside him twitch in renewed arousal, feel the heavy weight of Soundwave’s frame on his own.

The physical pleasure was secondary to the sheer joy he felt at having Soundwave back with him again, however briefly.

There was happiness and love, each of them reaching for the part of the other that complemented themselves, giving themselves up to each other. There was sadness too, an acknowledgement of their shattered hope that the two factions could be worked closer to each other instead of further apart, of the need to stay where they’d established themselves instead of with the other.

Because Blaster could never be a Decepticon. And Soundwave could never be an Autobot.

The merge ended, and the world was instantly colder.

“I love you, Soundwave,” Blaster repeated, pulling Soundwave close as if he could merge their physical bodies that way. “That won’t ever change.”

“And I love you too, as you know,” Soundwave whispered. “Life without you is agony.”

They lay in silence for a while. Neither of them wanted to dwell too much on such an uncomfortable truth.

“You should leave,” Blaster said finally. “First shift will be starting soon.”

Soundwave nodded, leaning down until their lips met again. As he pulled out and stood, Blaster had to suppress a shiver.

A brief cleaning, a quick notice sent to the quadrupedal cassettes, and they were back in the shadows of the main building. Blaster stepped into Soundwave’s open arms again.

“Thank you for coming, love.” He took the chance to kiss Soundwave once more, and then watched the mask and visor slide back into place. “It meant a lot.”

“Soundwave: adores you,” his mate replied, the monotone back now that the mask was engaged. “Will see you soon.”

“Count on it.” Blaster stepped back into the shadows. “Safe journey, love.”

Soundwave nodded. Then he turned, took a couple of steps into the ruined building behind the club, and was gone.

Blaster sighed and walked back inside.

It was time to try and ignore that bond again and head back to the Autobots.

 

It was a lonely trek, pulling the sled back to base by himself. Steeljaw was out there in the dark, keeping watch. He already missed Ravage terribly, and needed to work himself into exhaustion tonight.

Blaster knew exactly how he felt.

He summoned the cassette back to dock just outside the base. “Good job, Steelie,” he said softly. Steeljaw’s optics were dim – the cat was grieving, and there wasn’t much Blaster could do. It killed him when his creations suffered like this.

They were too close to others to use words to comfort, but Blaster knew that the soft scratches behind Steeljaw’s ruff would convey his words for him. The cat relaxed a bit under his hands. Docking with his carrier would do the rest, and Blaster sent the command to open his deck.

The guard recognized him on sight, waving him through and running the customary explosives scan on his equipment.

“Long night?” he asked, examining the readouts on the scanner.

“Mech, you have no idea,” Blaster replied with a sigh. He was looking forward to crashing into his berth. Steeljaw was already recharging soundly in his chest. “What about here? Everything quiet?”

“Yup.” The mech turned the scanner off. “Looks like the ‘Cons have taken the night off. Lucky for your gig, huh?”

Blaster nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that is lucky.” Inside, he sent a loving pulse along the bond. A moment later, the pulse was returned.

Luck indeed. Blaster wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out that Soundwave had convinced Megatron to order some form of practice drill or something just so that Blaster could have his gig uninterrupted by war.

It would have been a very Soundwave thing to do, stopping the war so Blaster could enjoy himself.

He was brought back to reality by the guard talking again. “Anyway, you’re all clear.” He smiled. “Pleasant recharge. Looks like you need it.”

Blaster didn’t care to argue. Mech was probably right.

He shuffled towards his own quarters, the sled a dead weight behind him. It wasn’t that heavy, but at this point it felt like it was pulling his arms out of their sockets.

Then the weight on his arm abruptly disappeared.

“Looks like ya can use th’ help, mech,” a familiar voice said. Blaster turned to see Jazz heft the tow ropes over his own shoulders and grin at him.

“Thanks, buddy.” Blaster ex-vented in relief and stretched his arms over his head, enjoying the way the movement eased his sore shoulder muscles. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Jazz fell into step next to him, still with that easy smile on his face. He was a good head shorter than Blaster, but the saboteur was deceptively strong. “So how was th’ gig? Did ya get t’ play the demons out?”

“It was awesome, and yeah, I did.” Blaster grinned. “It was almost like old times, actually.”

Jazz laughed. “Ya mean ya had ‘em throwin’ themselves at ya offerin’ t’ carry your sparklings?”

“Hah! No.” Blaster snorted a laugh. “Not that, thankfully. But the vibe, Jazz. And the mood. It was just right. Shame you missed it.”

It wasn’t, really. Blaster loved having his best friend in the crowd, but Jazz was too observant. Soundwave would never have approached him tonight if Jazz had been there.

“I’m glad it was good. Wish I coulda been there, but I was needed here.”

“There’ll be other gigs.” At least he hoped so. And what had kept Jazz home was more important anyway.

Not that he’d ever expected to see the day his best friend became such a family mech.

Blaster smiled at his friend. “So how are Prowl and the bitlet?”

“Blue’s still terrified.” Jazz sighed. “At least he accepts me now, so Prowler can get some recharge in. He’s been so exhausted, his doorwings’ve been plastered to his back.” He shot Blaster a sly glance. “Speakin’ of doorwings, Smokey asked after ya.” Jazz’s keen blue stare met Blaster’s own optics. “Still not interested? Those doorwings make everythin’ more interesting.”

“Nah, mech.” Blaster smiled easily and sent another pulse down the bond. “Doorwings are your thing, not mine.”

“One o’ these days, I’ll get ya t’ tell me what your type is,” Jazz joked.

Blaster laughed. “We’ll see.” It wasn’t very likely that he’d ever tell Jazz that his type was tall, dark, visored and masked, though. At least not while they were at war.

Jazz walked with him back to his quarters, towing the sled all the way, and then helped him stow the equipment away in the tiny storage room inside Blaster’s quarters. The space had once been a private was rack, but Blaster had sacrificed it for more storage space. He didn’t mind using the communal wash racks.

Jazz stood aside as Blaster closed and locked the wash rack door. This was another of his own alterations, making sure that no one but himself and the cassettes could get to the equipment inside. Some mecha on the base had decidedly sticky fingers.

Jazz pulled a pair of energon cubes from subspace. “Here. You’re probably running on empty.”

Not quite, thanks to the fuel he’d gotten from Soundwave. But Jazz really didn’t need to know that. “Thanks, mech.” He took one cube, downing it quickly.

“Sure thing.” Jazz set the other cube on the table. “Cassettes comin’ back soon?”

“They’re off shift now,” Blaster replied. “They should be here any moment.”

Jazz nodded. “I’ll leave ya to it then, m’ mech. Pleasant recharge.”

“Thanks, buddy. I appreciate the help.”

No sooner had the door shut behind Jazz than Blaster dropped down on the berth, face down and buried in the pillow. His entire being was focused inward, to the warmth and love in his spark that was Soundwave. Sending gentle pulses across the bond and having them returned.

That’s how Rewind, Eject and Ramhorn found him when they came back. He could feel them clambering across the berth, and turned around to gather them into his arms.

“Blaster?” Eject asked timidly. “Are you okay?”

“Did you meet Soundwave?” Rewind burrowed in under his arm.

“You felt that, huh?” Blaster chuckled. “Guess I wasn’t shielding as hard as I should. Yeah, I met him. Your creator’s fine, and so are the kids. Steelie ran with Ravage, he can probably tell you more of what they’re getting up to.”

“But Creator was okay? Megatron is being nice to him?”

Blaster nodded and stroked Eject’s back plating. “He’s just fine, bit. You know him. He’s too skilled for Megatron to be anything but nice to him. I’m sure he’s enjoying the respect he deserves.” He kissed the two small faces and cradled his twins close. Ramhorn was lying across his legs, optics dimmed. His eldest cassette wasn’t much for affection, but he enjoyed the closeness. “Soundwave misses you. He wanted me to tell you he loves you all very much. So do the bits.”

“I miss them too,” Eject said softly. “Do you think… when the war ends…?

“I hope so,” Blaster sighs. “I hope we can all be together then.”

He didn’t add the caveats running through his mind. _If we’re all still alive. If he still loves me by then. If the war ever does end._ His sparklings didn’t need to worry about those things.

There was another pulse across the bond, and Blaster surrendered to it. For now, he would let himself hope that everything would turn out all right.


	5. Jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz adores his small family. So it's time to finally make it official.  
> He's never been more nervous in his life.

Some would probably have called it a waste of time. Said there were so many better ways to spend an evening. Complained about the noise.

Jazz thought they couldn’t have been more wrong.

Sure, the noise was – well. He’d dampen his audial receptors, but then he’d miss the soft crooning as well.

Plus, the bitlet wasn’t screaming to be a bother.

Privately, Jazz thought most healthy grown mechs would be screaming too, had they experienced the same. The kid had a right to scream his terrors out.

So instead of going back to his own quarters, or to the rec room, or wherever else where he wouldn’t have to listen to the tortured howling, Jazz sat on Prowl’s couch, memorizing the soft melody the Praxian was humming to soothe his small, terrified charge. Bluestreak was clinging to Prowl’s plating, face pressed against his surrogate carrier’s throat cables, as if that could muffle the screams. Tiny doorwings were trembling on his little grey back.

It was spark-shattering and spark-warming all at once.

Spark-shattering, because no bitlet should ever have to witness his creators dying or his city being destroyed around him. Because every scream out of Bluestreak’s ragged vocalizer meant trauma it would take him years to work through, if he ever could. Because Jazz was most likely looking at the last Praxian sparkling in existence.

Spark-warming because of the way he was seeking comfort from the mech who was striving to be both carrier and creator to a bitlet not of his own spark. Because of Prowl’s quiet, patient humming, the measured rocking walk across the floor, every movement and sound meant to soothe.

Jazz loved both of them in that moment. He was restraining himself so he wouldn’t scare Blue even further, but he desperately wanted to join in that comfort and croon his own soothing counterpoint to Prowl’s pleasant tenor.

It took a few hours, like it always did, before Bluestreak’s desperate screaming settled down to quiet sobbing. Only then did Jazz stand up and walk over to his lover and his charge.

Their charge, if Prowl agreed to that.

“Shh, baby Blue,” Jazz purred. “You’re safe, bit.” Carefully, making sure both Prowl and Blue were aware of what he was doing, he reached out and let one hand run gently down Bluestreak’s back.

“Will you get his blanket?” Prowl’s voice was still soft, and he was almost singing the words, following the melody he’d been humming.

Mech was a natural.

Jazz moved over to the small berth affixed to Prowl’s and collected the fluffy blanket lining it. He draped it around Blue, taking care to keep his doorwings free – the first time they’ve been covered by a blanket, Bluestreak had thrown a fit unlike anything Jazz had ever seen. The same thing had happened when Ratchet had tried to dampen the sensors to ease his recharge. Bluestreak desperately needed to know there was open space and living frames around him. He needed the sensory input that the doorwings gave him.

Warm and finally calming down, Bluestreak’s optics dimmed. Prowl kept rocking him until the bitlet was in deep recharge. Only then did he put the sparkling back in the berth.

“You should recharge, love,” Jazz murmured. Prowl was probably more tired than he looked, though he looked tired enough – optics dim, doorwings low with exhaustion, plating matted…

… and a silly little smile on his face as he gazed down into the small berth.

He looked adorable.

“What if he wakes?” Prowl frowned, tearing his optics away from the recharging sparkling to meet Jazz’s.

“I’ll be watchin’ him,” Jazz promised. “I’ll wake ya at the first hint o’ trouble, I promise.”

Prowl looked at him for a moment longer. Then he nodded and moved back on the berth, leaving room for Jazz between himself and the sparkling.

It was a huge show of trust. Jazz felt both honored and relieved – he’d been trying to convince his lover that he didn’t have to do this alone, and it looked like he was finally succeeding. So he sat down carefully at the head of the berth, stretching his legs on the soft surface.

Chuckling silently when Prowl grabbed one leg, cuddling close and resting against it as if Jazz’s leg was a pillow.

It didn’t take long before the tactician was in recharge as well.

When he was in recharge, Prowl’s stern countenance softened. The firm curve of his mouth relaxed, letting Jazz see the slight tilt upwards at the corners that was usually kept under such tight control.

Prowl’s recharge-face was a happy one.

Bluestreak, on the other hand, never seemed to relax fully. His little fists were clenching on his blanket, a frown on his tiny face, tension in every line of his body. Jazz had no idea if the mechling was usually showing this much stress in his recharge, but he didn’t like it.

_Poor bitlet._

Cautiously, Jazz reached out and let one finger trace over the back of one of Bluestreak’s small hands. At first the bitlet twitched, but then he settled as Jazz repeated the tiny motion over and over.

“There ya go,” Jazz breathed. He turned slightly, supporting his weight on his elbow, his left hand still in the sparkling’s berth. “There ya go, baby Blue. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’ll be right here, takin’ care of ya and Prowl.” He took care to keep his voice quiet, silent enough to almost be completely inaudible – he didn’t want to wake the Praxian who was still attached to his left leg.

“Easy, baby,” he crooned. “Just recharge. I’m not gonna let anything get ya.”

Bluestreak huffed in his recharge. Then his little hand opened, and he grabbed Jazz’s finger, pulling it up to his face. He wasn’t awake, thankfully, but Jazz froze all the same. He stayed still for several minutes, watching the mechling intently, until he was satisfied that he wasn’t waking up.

He wasn’t letting go of Jazz’s finger, either.

Jazz chuckled silently. “Fine then, bit. Ya jus’ keep holdin’ on to me. Pleasant recharge, baby Blue.”

Awkwardly, stiffly, Jazz settled in to recharge like that – half seated against the wall, one leg claimed by a recharging Praxian, and a terrified bitlet keeping a tight grip on his finger.

Strangely enough, he was happy like that.

 

The small sound startled Jazz out of recharge. He sat up fast, probably faster than he should have considering the sharp stabs of pain shooting up his back.

_Not limber ‘nough t’ recharge sittin’ up an’ twisted like that anymore, mech._

The noise came again, and Jazz twisted towards the small berth on his right. Bluestreak still had a hold of his finger, but his little face was scrunched up, his doorwings vibrating.

Jazz didn’t hesitate before picking the bit up and cradling him close to his spark.

“Hush, sweetspark. You’re safe, love. Ain’t no one here but you, me and Prowl. Ain’t nothin’ here gonna hurt ya.” He hummed softly, rocking the whimpering sparkling as much as he could while still sitting in the berth. “Easy, Bluestreak. I got ya.”

Bluestreak’s small hands tightened on Jazz’s plating, and he hid under Jazz’s chin. The weight on his throat cables was a bit uncomfortable, but Jazz would take that any time if it helped.

And it clearly did. Bluestreak was calming down again.

“Need that spark hum, don’t ya?” Jazz murmured. “Need t’ feel a livin’ mech close. That’s alright, love. Ya can sleep on me if it helps. I don’t mind.” He stretched towards the small berth, reaching as much as he could without jostling the bitlet clinging to him, and managed to get hold of the fluffy blanket. With gentle, careful moves he covered the small shivering form, once again taking care to keep the doorwings clear.

“There ya go, love,” he purred quietly. “There ya go. Hush now, bit. Ain’t nothin’ bad gonna happen to ya now. I’ll take care o’ ya.” He nuzzled the tiny helm. “Can ya recharge some more for me? Ya can stay right here, if ya want. Ain’t gonna put ya down.”

Bluestreak sighed and mumbled, a tiny little noise that was almost buried in the quiet purr of Jazz’s own frame, but there was no missing the way the small body relaxed against him.

Jazz grinned as he leaned back against the wall. Not the most comfortable position, but slag if he was going to move now. Not with Bluestreak back in recharge, taking comfort in Jazz’s own spark.

He’d simply have to deal with the crimped cables in the morning. It would be worth it.

 

When Jazz woke next, it was to happy babbling. Also, someone was tugging at his visor.

A familiar voice chuckled next to him. “Careful, Bluestreak. Jazz needs that.”

“Good mornin’, loves.” Jazz grinned as the tiny fingers were gently but firmly pulled away from his visor. “Recharge well?”

Bluestreak chirped again, patting his cheek, and Jazz onlined his optics.

Prowl was smiling at him. “Good morning, my Jazz. That doesn’t look overly comfortable.”

Jazz laughed, and Bluestreak chirped up at him with a happy smile on his small face. “It ain’t, Prowler. But baby Blue wanted t’ recharge on top o’ someone.”

“And like the utter sap you are, you volunteered,” Prowl said fondly.

“O’ course.” Jazz grinned and tickled the sparkling crawling over his lap. Bluestreak fell to his back, giggling. “I wasn’ about to wake ya, Prowler. Ya needed th’ recharge. Besides, it looks like it worked.”

“He’s happy today,” Prowl agreed. “Thank you, love. Come on, Bluestreak. Let’s give Jazz a chance to get out of berth. Do you want to play with your toys today?”

Jazz watched as Prowl stood, picking up Bluestreak and carrying him over to the corner set aside for a play area. It was well stocked – there were few Autobots who hadn’t leapt at the chance to do something for the only survivor of the carnage in Praxus.

Jazz sat up stiffly, wincing at the soreness in his neck and shoulders. “If ya don’ mind, love, I’m gonna hit the wash racks. Maybe hot solvent can loosen some o’ these crimps.”

Prowl gave him a small smile. “I’ll have energon ready for you for after.”

Jazz grinned as he walked past them. “I’ll hold ya t’ that.”

 

He was right, the hot solvent eased the soreness. And it fired up his processor properly, too.

He wanted what was back in that main room. He wanted to spend every night in Prowl’s berth, with or without bitlet on top of him. He wanted to lie on his belly on the floor and watch Bluestreak play, and to cradle him close when he was crying. He wanted Prowl to fall asleep holding on to him again.

He wanted all of it.

_Prowler, would ya… No. Maybe if I had a proper courtin’ gift? Can such a thing be found anymore? Maybe if I… No, Praxus isn’t safe. I can’t send anyone there. And Iacon is in ruins, Blaster said so. He could barely find a place for his gig._

He turned, relaxing his plating to let the heat in underneath.

 _Prowl, I really want t’ bond with you. Would you do me the honor of – I’ll never be able t’ say that with a straight face. Slag._ He ran a hand across his face. _I’ll have t’ wing it. Good think I’m good at that._

A quick drying off, and he walked back to the main room. Prowl was seated on the couch, a datapad in his hand and another on his lap, and Bluestreak was still playing happily on the floor. The mechling looked up and chirped at Jazz as he arrived, and Jazz grinned back.

It was perfect domestic bliss. And he wanted it so bad it hurt.

“Thought th’ Prime told ya not t’ take your work home with ya,” Jazz joked as he sat down on the couch next to his lover. “You’re on sparklin’ leave, after all.”

“This isn’t work, Jazz,” Prowl said softly. “I’m updating my personal information.” He looked up from the datapad and shot Jazz a blinding grin. “Optimus has sent the adoption files for me to fill out. All I have to do is complete it, and it’ll be binding. Bluestreak will be mine.”

 _Ours_ , Jazz thought desperately. _Please say he’ll be ours, Prowler._ He rested his chin on Prowl’s shoulder, glancing down at the datapads. “So what’s left?”

In response, Prowl angled the datapad so Jazz could see. “His name is entered. I have to fill out adoptive creators’ information and check all these boxes. And then I need to update my own personnel file.”

“Well, that should be fairly simple.” Jazz pointed at the little square that said ‘Adoptive carrier’. “That should say ‘Prowl’.”

Prowl chuckled. “Thank you, Jazz. I don’t know how I would ever manage filling out paperwork without you.” He entered his name in the little square.

“You’re welcome,” Jazz replied with an easy smile, his spark spinning madly in his chest. Suppressing the tremble in his fingers, he pointed to ‘Adoptive sire’. “And that should say ‘Jazz’.”

He had never been more nervous in his entire existence.

Prowl paused and turned towards him, an inscrutable look in his optics. “It should?”

Jazz nodded, much more affirmatively than he felt. “It should.”

Prowl pulled up the other datapad and activated it. “And on this one?”

Jazz leaned down further to get a closer look at Prowl’s personnel file. “That should be simple, too.” He pointed at ‘Creation(s)’. “That should say ‘Bluestreak’.”

“It should.” Prowl entered the mechling’s designation, then glanced back at Jazz. “Is that all?”

“No.” Another calming in-vent, to try and calm his raging spark and trembling hands. He pointed at ‘Sire’, next to Bluestreak’s name. “That should say ‘Jazz’.” Then he moved his finger to ‘Partner/mate’, up near the top under Prowl’s name. “And that should say ‘Jazz’.”

“It should?” That inscrutable gaze again. Sometimes Jazz wished his lover didn’t have such a steel-clad control of his frame. It would have been nice to get just a little hint of what he was thinking.

“Yes.” Jazz nodded.

“I see.” Prowl deactivated the datapads and put them back on the table.

Without filling in Jazz’s name anywhere.

 _Oh no._ Jazz’s spark plummeted. For a moment, he wanted to run, to get out of there and lick his wounds in peace.

But then Prowl spun back and reached for him, kissing every inch of Jazz’s face and smiling tremulously.

“Do you mean that, Jazz?” He cradled Jazz’s face, and Jazz could feel how Prowl’s hands were trembling. “Do you really mean it?”

“I really mean it, love.” Jazz’s hands slid around Prowl’s waist, pressing them closer together. “I want t’ be yours in any way you’ll have me. I want this – you and Blue. Always.”

“Then yes,” Prowl breathed, pulling back a bit. Exuberant blue optics met Jazz’s visored gaze. “I love you, Jazz. I want you in my life forever.”

Jazz couldn’t not kiss him at that point. His spark was spinning so fast it near made him dizzy.

What was shaping up to be an activity better suited for the berth was interrupted by a bright, curious chirp. Small hands patted Jazz’s arm.

Prowl smiled as he pulled back. “Hello, sweetling.” He lifted Bluestreak up and placed him between them. “Jazz will be your adoptive sire. Can you say ‘Jazz’?”

Bluestreak smiled. “Jazz.”

Jazz melted. He reached for the mechling and pulled him close. “Yeah, Blue. Primus, I love you, bit. An’ I love your carrier.” He grinned over Bluestreak’s happy clicks and snuggles. “We’re gonna be good, ain’t we?”

“No,” Prowl replied softly, smiling at the two of them. “No, Jazz, we’re going to be amazing.”

Bluestreak chirped in apparent agreement, and Jazz laughed. “Yeah, Prowler. Yeah, we are.” He winked. “Now finish your paperwork.”

“Yes, my love.” Prowl chuckled lightly as he reached for the datapads. Jazz watched as his partner, his mate as soon as they could bond, entered Jazz’s name in the fields he had pointed out. Then Prowl held the datapad with the adoption file out towards Bluestreak. “Will you do the honors, Bluestreak? Press this sign?”

Bluestreak chirped happily and put two stubby fingers on top of the little icon.

A moment later, Jazz received a message.

_Congratulations, Jazz. I am very happy for you. And I’ve put you on leave for the next three orns. That is the best I can do, I’m afraid, to let you celebrate such a momentous occasion, but rest assured that I will throw a party worthy of even your social skills on the day we can again be allowed to do so._

_Give my love to your family._

He chuckled. “Prime is excited for us.”

“Of course he is,” Prowl said, tickling Bluestreak fondly. “He’s Prime.” He lifted Bluestreak up and bounced him a bit on his lap. “Do you want to visit the commissary with us today, sweetling? I think you may be ready for a trip outside.” He grinned at Jazz. “And if you get scared again, your sire will be right there to protect you.”

Jazz grinned. “Bet on it.”

He’d always be there.


	6. Optimus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus is being dense. Luckily, Elita is there to sort out the tangles.

_Something in the way she moves_

_Attracts me like no other lover_

_Something in the way she woos me_

_I don’t want to leave her now_

_You know I believe and how_

_\- The Beatles: Something -_

 

Ironhide didn’t knock before opening the door. He never did, unless he knew Optimus had visitors.

Well. A very specific visitor. The one Optimus was waiting for right now.

“Sideswipe reports that Elita’s here, Prime,” his bodyguard said gruffly. Ironhide’s voice was always gruff these days. It worried Optimus slightly – he could remember a time not too long ago when the red mech laughed as much as he grouched, and his voice had been far more melodious back then. But Ironhide wasn’t talking about it, and Optimus wouldn’t push.

“Good!” The lightwing flies in his stomach multiplied. “Have him bring her in, please.”

Ironhide opened the door, stepping inside his office. “Ya might want ta meet her elsewhere, Prime. This place is nice, but it’s kinda cluttered.”

Optimus blinked, then looked down at his desk. “Um. You’re right about that.” He smiled sheepishly. “My quarters, then?”

Ironhide nodded and raised a hand to his audial. “Bring her ta the Prime’s quarters, Sideswipe. We’re comin’.”

“Thank you, old friend.” Optimus stood and walked around his desk to join his bodyguard. He smiled at the shorter mech. “Tell me, have you thought more about Chromia? Shall I ask Elita to bring her next time?”

“I don’t fraternize while on duty,” Ironhide replied, his ever-vigilant optics scanning the hallway as they walked. “Besides, I’m sure she’s a nice femme, but she ain’t fer me. And I ain’t fer her.”

Ironhide was being deliberately evasive, Optimus was sure of it. But the mech could be remarkably stubborn when he wanted to, so if he wasn’t talking, then he wasn’t talking.

Still, giving it one more try probably wouldn’t hurt.

“If you are sure,” he replied. “But you will tell me if there is anything else I can do for you in that aspect, all right?”

Ironhide glanced up at him. “Ain’t no such doin’, Prime. Sometimes sparks just work the way they want to, regardless of what we want. You focus on yer own romantic interest and stop worryin’ about mine.”

Well, that was as politely phrased a ‘slag off’ as Optimus had ever heard.

Ironhide nodded at Sunstreaker, in position outside the door, then entered the Prime’s personal quarters. Never mind that Sideswipe was already inside, and Sunstreaker would have warned them if anything was amiss – Ironhide insisted on making his own checks. It was reassuring, in a way, but sometimes Optimus just wanted to barrel past him and run inside.

Especially when Elita was waiting.

Fortunately, it was mere moments before the door opened again and Ironhide beckoned him inside. “They’re in the sittin’ room, waitin’ fer ya.”

He practically elbowed past Ironhide to get into his own quarters.

Elita was in there. Waiting for him.

It still felt surreal.

Especially when he saw that long-legged, almost glowing form standing up from the couch and gliding towards him.

“Hello, Optimus.” Her voice was a purr.

“Elita.” He raised his arms and she stepped right into them, as if she had been created to fit there. “Hello, my love.”

She returned his embrace, before stepping back and smiling up at him. “You look tired. Have you been working too hard again?” She turned her head to look at the red mech who’d followed Optimus into the room. “Ironhide, has he been working too hard again?”

“Course he has,” Ironhide replied gruffly. “Always does.” Ironhide nodded at Sideswipe, and the red warrior saluted and left the room. “If ya can get him ta stop pushin’ himself, punishin’ himself, I’d appreciate it.”

“He may be too stubborn, even for me,” Elita replied with a light laugh. “But I’ll certainly do my best.”

Optimus couldn’t take his optics off her.

Elita took his hand and pulled him to the couch. “So tell me, Ironhide, how’s Iacon holding up?”

“You know, you can ask me that,” Optimus pointed out. “I’m supposed to know these things.”

“Yes, but you’ll just tell me the stuff you think I need to know, and try to shield me from the evil reality,” Elita shot back. “Ironhide will give me the truth. Oh, for Primus’ sake, Ironhide, sit down. I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking at you.”

Ironhide hesitated, then sat down. “We’re holdin’ on. Prowl could probably give ya a better estimate than me. But with him on leave, I’d say… We’re holdin’ on, but we ain’t gonna win like this. The ‘Cons are pressin’ us too hard, too fast, there are too many civilians floodin’ Iacon, and we’re gonna see shortages of everythin’ soon.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Optimus protested. He wanted – needed – for there to be light at the end of the tunnel. “Prowl’s given me several likely scenarios, based on what we or the Decepticons do next, and we hold Iacon quite well in several of them.” He didn’t add that Prowl had been deliberately vague on their long-term prospects.

“That fits with what I’ve seen,” Elita sighed. “They’re pushing us harder and harder.” She turned a sudden sharp look on Optimus. “Wait, Prowl’s on leave?”

“For a little while more, yes. Creator’s leave.” Optimus smiled as he shared what had been the happiest news he’d received in ages. “He and Jazz have adopted Bluestreak.”

“Together? Oh, that is happy news.” Elita smiled and leaned against Optimus. “I knew those two were made for each other.”

“Jazz is over the moon.” Ironhide grinned. “Ya should’ve seen him in the commissary the other day. He was beamin’, that little bit hangin’ on to his shoulders. He’s the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him.”

“I want to meet the bitlet,” Elita decided, “when they’ll let me. I understand he’s traumatized.”

“Being the only one ta survive city-wide destruction would do that ta any mech.” Ironhide sounded grim.

 “I’m sure they’ll only be too happy to show him off once he’s settled a bit.” Optimus nuzzled Elita’s cheek. “How long can you stay today?”

“I left my contingent in Chromia’s capable hands, with strict orders to lay low until I return.” She smiled mischievously. “I also said I won’t return until tomorrow at the earliest.”

Optimus stared at her. Then he grinned.

Ironhide stood. “I’ll make a sweep of yer berthroom.”

Elita waited until Ironhide was out of audial range. “He really is conscientious, isn’t he?”

“He’ll have a guard posted at my balcony tonight, and another at the door,” Optimus replied, nuzzling her again. “Maybe even someone posted inside the apartment. I hope you aren’t shy.”

“ _I_ hope the guards are not easily embarrassed, whoever they are.” Her grin was positively wicked. “I aim to make you _scream_ my name.”

Optimus groaned as her tone made heat flare up his spinal strut. “Screaming may happen.”

Then, finally, he kissed her.

It was no chaste thing. In fact, Optimus managed to think, it was a good thing his berthroom was just one door away. Because that was as far as they were going to get. If it hadn’t been for Ironhide still being in the apartment, they wouldn’t even have managed to leave the couch.

As it was, the sound of Ironhide giving a discrete hum behind them was enough to prompt Optimus to let Elita move away slightly.

“Berthroom’s clear,” Ironhide said. He didn’t look at them. “I’ll… leave ya with the twins. Trailbreaker’ll be out on yer balcony, Prime.”

Elita tilted her head, looked at Ironhide sharply. Optimus knew her well enough to recognize the look that she got whenever she discovered a mystery that she just had to unravel, but he wasn’t exactly keen to figure out what it was about his bodyguard that had caught his lover’s attention.

Not when said lover was heating up so wonderfully in his arms, cooling fans kicked on low and vents speeding up.

“Thank you, Ironhide,” he managed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He waited until the door closed behind his bodyguard, then scooped up a giggling Elita and carried her to the berthroom.

 

Later, when their plating was cooling back down with little ticks and pings, he remembered that look. Elita was lying across his chest, where she’d settled earlier, and Optimus was running his fingers up and down her back. They were both close to recharge, but not there yet. He shifted to put an arm under his head, changing the angle so he could look at her.

“’Lita, love?”

“Hmm?” She sounded half in recharge already. It was adorable.

“Why were you looking at Ironhide like that earlier?”

“Looking at – oh! That.” She lifted her head slightly until she could rest her chin on his chest and look him in the optics. “Let me ask you something first. Did you talk to him about Chromia?”

“I did. He politely declined. Said he’d heard about her and they’d be wrong for each other.”

She chuckled. “Chromia said much the same thing. But I realized today that they have different reasons.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Chromia said, and this is verbatim, so you’ll have to pardon the… interesting language.” Her voice turned slightly more gravelly, dipped into a slightly lower register, changed just enough that he could recognize the imitation. “He’d be real fun in the berth, I bet he has stamina to die for and that aft may be Primus’ gift to anyone with optics, but we’re too similar, ‘Lita. We’d make more fireworks than a fistful of inebriated seekers at a Towers coming-of-age party, and then we’d try so hard to frag each other into submission that we’d end up starting another war just to settle it.”

Optimus laughed. Loudly. He could see the shadow of Trailbreaker turning his head slightly out on the balcony. “Well, that’s an interesting summary. So if that’s her point of view, what of Ironhide?”

Uncharacteristically, she hesitated. Optimus hadn’t known Elita to do anything but meet any challenge head-on. To look so apprehensive over a simple conversation was unlike her. “Has he… said anything to you?”

“About Chromia?” He shook his head. “Not beyond what I’ve already said. But I’ve been trying not to pry.”

“Nothing about his feelings?” She slid up to rest her head on his shoulder.

“He told me to butt out of them.” Optimus frowned. “Now that I think about it, that’s not really like him.”

“Maybe, but it fits with my theory.”

He stroked her cheek. “What theory, dearspark?”

“That the reason Ironhide won’t date Chromia is because he loves someone else. And that those feelings aren’t reciprocated.”

Optimus blinked. That, he hadn’t seen coming. “He loves someone? Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be without downright asking him,” she replied, “and before you ask, no, I won’t do that. It’s not my place to do so.” She shifted, snuggling closer. “Are you sure he hasn’t said anything?”

Optimus shifted as well, dropping his head back against the berth and putting both arms around his lover. He went over the last handful of conversations he’d had with the weapons specialist.

…huh.

“I think you’re right,” he said in surprise. “He’s been saying things that could indicate something like that lately.”

“Things like?” Elita prompted.

“Like… how not everyone’s lucky enough to have someone who loves them back. And just today, that sparks do as they saw fit regardless of what we want.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I should back off, like he asked.” He twisted to look at Elita again. “How did you know?”

She ignored the question and asked one of her own. “Has he told you who it is?”

“He hasn’t even told me he’s in love, ‘Lita,” Optimus pointed out. “Why would he tell me who it is?” Realization hit, and he gave his lover a sharp look. “Wait, do you know who it is?”

“I have a suspicion,” she admitted. “But it’s not my place to tell you, not if you haven’t seen it yourself.”

“If I haven’t…” Optimus trailed off. Again, he reviewed all his interactions with Ironhide over the last period of time, back to even before Elita had come back into the picture. Back when Ironhide had been smiling, and joking with him, and looking at him like…

Oh.

_Oh_.

Oh no.

“So you do see it,” Elita said softly. “Now, at least, you see it.”

“Primus,” Optimus breathed. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before, either. It’s so obvious, now that you’ve pointed it out.”

“Most things are,” Elita said matter-of-factly, “and it’s a good lesson for you to learn, though the circumstances could be better. Do you know how long it has been going on?”

There was quiet as Optimus thought back, even further back, back almost to the beginning of the war and the beginning of Optimus Prime.

He couldn’t find where it began. When the warmth in Ironhide’s optics had first appeared. When the care for a student well taught had become affection for Optimus himself.

“Slag,” he groaned. “He’s been in love with me for a long time, Elita. What do I do?”

“Let me ask you something.” She pulled herself away slightly, sitting up and watching him. “Can you see yourself with him?”

“But I love you,” Optimus replied dumbly. The question didn’t make any sense.

“I know that, silly mech.” She smiled gently. “And I love you. But I’m asking you whether - that not being the case, or even despite that being the case – you could ever see yourself with him.”

Optimus gave it some serious thought. It was hard, trying to put aside how his spark wanted the femme in the berth with him so very much, and try to imagine himself with another.

He dimmed his optics, tried to conjure up the images in his mind. Of Ironhide, smiling that smile that Optimus now realized was for him alone and that he hadn’t seen in a while. Of his strong, capable hands, wide shoulders. The aft that Chromia was so enthusiastic about. He tried to imagine himself reacting to the other mech, touching him, letting their fingers tangle together.

It was as far as he was prepared to take it, and it wasn’t enough. It didn’t give him a definite answer.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He’s been my friend for such a long time, Elita, and you’re foremost in my thoughts. I don’t know how to even figure out if there could be something there.”

“That’s not a definite no, though,” Elita replied. “Do you want my advice?”

“Please,” Optimus said fervently. He was perfectly happy to let Elita take charge of the situation. She seemed to be floundering far less than he was.

“Then be a better actor than I’ve seen you be so far,” Elita said, her voice serious. “Pretend like you don’t know how he feels. Push that blessed honesty of yours to the back. And interact with him. Let yourself imagine a different relationship. And consider this.” She leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her optic. “I will not let you go. But, given the right circumstances, I may be convinced to share.”

Optimus stared at her.

Elita seemed to sense his surprise. She grinned at him, still amused. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. It’s not that unusual a suggestion.” She winked.

“Well, no, but – I mean –“ He gave up hunting for the right word and just shook his head with a smile. “Elita, you’re amazing.”

“Thank you. The feeling is mutual.” She smiled smugly and stretched out on top of him. “The sharing thing is a potential future, love. For now…” Her fingers drew traces down his abdomen. “For now, I have you all to myself. And I plan to make the most of that. What do you say?”

There really wasn’t much he needed to say. And his mouth was soon otherwise busy.

 

“Shift change, Prime,” Sideswipe said, popping his head in through the open doorway. “Do you need anything before we go?”

“No thanks, Sideswipe,” Optimus replied cordially. “I’ll see you and your brother in a few days.”

The frontliner threw him a lazy salute and a grin, and sauntered off.

Optimus suppressed a smile. Seeing his Autobots relaxed like that was a blessing. The recent lull in combat had let more than a few of them relax and unwind, and he knew they were all the happier for it.

He knew it couldn’t last. But he’d take every moment of it he could get.

Ironhide was also smiling as he walked in. Granted, he was doing it while shaking his head in exasperation, but the smile was still there.

“Something funny?”

“Sides is bein’ more obvious than usual,” Ironhide replied with a chuckle. “It’s a good thing Sunny’s off shift tomorrow, because I don’t think he’ll be able ta walk properly.”

Optimus winced and grinned ruefully. “I don’t think I needed to know that.”

“Neither did I, but if I gotta suffer, then you gotta suffer,” Ironhide retorted easily. He made his customary sweep of the office, then took up position by the door.

Optimus could suddenly hear Elita’s voice in his head, as clearly as if she had been there.

Well. No time like the present.

“I was about to take a break, actually,” he offered. “Want to play a game with me?”

“A game?” Ironhide canted his head. “The calm gettin’ to you too, huh? Sure, I can play a game. What did ya have in mind?”

In response, Optimus stood and walked over to a rarely-opened cabinet. Behind a few spare cubes and a bottle of high-grade that by all rights should be back in his quarters and not here, there was a pile of games. “Jazz taught me one a while back,” he commented as he rummaged. “The rules were deceptively simple, and he trounced me properly. I’ve been wanting to practice with someone who hasn’t honed his skills against Prowl.” He finally found the checkered board and the black and white tiles that went with it.

Ironhide grinned when he saw the pieces. “Ah, yeah, I’ve seen them play that. It’s no wonder he got the better of ya.” He dropped into the chair opposite Optimus’ desk, tugging it slightly closer. “I’ve tried it once or twice, but I’m too direct for his playin’ style.” He winked. “I’ll be black.”

Optimus put the board down as he sat. “Fair enough.”

The pieces were distributed, the game begun, the chatter flowed easily. After a while, when Optimus’ shift ended, he went and got that bottle of high-grade and the cubes for it, pouring for them both. Then he lost some more, which didn’t matter, because so did Ironhide and they were both having too much fun to care. So Optimus poured them some more high-grade, laughed at some more jokes, enjoyed the easy banter when the game was forgotten in favor of the conversation.

He imagined.


	7. Sideswipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sideswipe isn't afraid of giving back. Especially when it's Ratchet's who's floundering.

_I hurt myself today_

_To see if I still feel_  

_focused on the pain_

_The only thing that’s real_

_The needle tears a hole_

_The old, familiar sting_

_Try to kill it all away_

_But I remember everything_

_\- Johnny Cash: Hurt –_

_When you’re down and out_

_When you’re on the street_

_When evening falls so hard_

_I will comfort you_

_I’ll take your pain when darkness comes_

_And pain is all around_

_Like a bridge over troubled water_  

_I will lay me down_

_Like a bridge over troubled water_

_Iwill lay me down_

_\- Simon and Garfunkel: Bridge over troubled water -_

 

Sideswipe was looking for Ratchet. He hadn’t seen him at all after the battle, and he was getting worried. Especially since he’d been to the med bay, the hallway where triage had taken place, the morgue, the storage rooms, the officer’s lounge, the rec room and the Prime’s office without finding a trace of him.

Ratchet was AWOL. And Sideswipe didn’t like it.

He headed for the med bay, again, aiming to at least pry a bit at one of the other medics. One of them had to know where Ratchet was. The incoming comm interrupted him before he could get that far, though.

::Sideswipe.::

::Ironhide? What’s up, sir?::

::I need ya ta find Ratchet. I’d do it myself, but I’m on duty with the Prime and can’t get away.::

Sideswipe’s attention split between worry for Ratchet and trying to avoid throwing his arms up in the middle of the hallway like an idiot – because he was already looking for Ratchet, dammit – with a small processor thread dedicated to whether or not Ironhide actually thought he fooled anyone by never saying Optimus’ name.

::Hate to break it to you, ‘Hide, but I’ve been looking for Ratchet for most of the day. He’s nowhere to be found.::

Ironhide swore. It was one of the more colorful ones Sideswipe had ever heard, and he made a mental note to try it out on Cliffjumper or someone later.

::Of course he isn’t,:: Ironhide sighed. ::He always goes inta hiding after intense fighting, and today was one of the worst yet.::

Sideswipe had to agree with that. No one had really expected such an extensive bombing run. The number of Autobot casualties were staggering, the highest from a single battle yet, but the civilian casualty count was high enough to completely dwarf the Autobot numbers.

::I probably shouldn’t do this,:: Ironhide grumbled. :: But I think we need ta find him sooner rather than later. This is the code ta his quarters.:: He rattled off a series of numbers. ::If he ain’t there, we need ta start searchin’ the city. I hope it doesn’t come ta that.::

::Me either,:: Sideswipe agreed fervently. He turned around, heading towards the officers’ quarters. ::I’m on it.::

The hallways grew steadily more empty as he approached the quarters he thought had to be Ratchet’s. Normally, he wouldn’t have minded the empty corridors. But now that he was already worried for Ratchet, the lack of other mecha made his plating crawl - even though he figured the reason no one was around was because everyone was still on duty, wrapping up today’s disaster.

Still. Sideswipe sped up, hurrying without really knowing why.

He did have enough patience to actually try knocking on the door before letting himself in. He even called Ratchet’s name a few times. But when there was no response, he didn’t hesitate to put in the code as fast as he could manage.

The door slid open to reveal a darkened room. No sign of Ratchet. Sideswipe walked in slowly, almost apprehensively – he wasn’t sure what he would find, even with every instinct he possessed screaming at him that he was in the right place, that Ratchet was here and needed help.

No Ratchet in the berthroom. Not in the small couch in the corner either.

But there was the sound of solvent running coming from the attached wash rack.

Sideswipe slid the door open slowly, flinching back a bit when the steam hit his face. The air was thick enough with it that he had problems making anything out.

Though he did see enough to pick out the tight ball of white and red plating bunched up in the corner of the room.

::Got him, ‘Hide. But it’s not good.::

::Do what ya have ta, Sides. Ya know him well enough fer that.::

Sideswipe moved closer, making sure to telegraph his every move so he wouldn’t spook the other mech. Ratchet didn’t look like he was quite in touch with reality at this point.

Sideswipe had seen the like before. In himself, and in is brother.

“Ratchet? Hey, I’m coming in, okay?”

The medic didn’t respond. He was sitting as far into the corner as he could get, knees pulled up to his chest, head hidden in his arms.

Sideswipe turned the solvent off, and in the sudden quiet he could hear the faint rattle of Ratchet’s plating.

Slowly, carefully, he knelt in front of the trembling mech. “Hey, Ratchet. It’s just me. It’s Sideswipe.” He hesitated for a moment, then put his hands on Ratchet’s arms.

Blue optics blinked up at him. “Sides?” Ratchet’s voice was a static-filled croak.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He tugged at those arms. “Come on, let’s get you dry. You’re going to rust or something.”

Ratchet didn’t object to the blatant falsehood, and if nothing else that was clear evidence to Sideswipe of how out of it Ratchet was. He’d usually be calling Sideswipe an idiot for spouting such nonsense. Instead, the medic just let himself be pulled until he was leaning against Sideswipe’s arms, letting him take most of his weight as he stood up.

Sideswipe guided him to the door, snagging a drying cloth on the way. By the time they got to the couch he’d managed to get Ratchet mostly dry, despite the medic being more of a burden than a help. Ratchet slid down onto the seat, pulling himself back into that tight little ball.

Sideswipe simply sat down beside him, close enough to feel the faint vibrations every time Ratchet shivered.

“So,” he began after a moment. “Want to talk about it?”

To his surprise, Ratchet leaned against him. Completely. A full frame lean, all of Ratchet touching Sideswipe’s side, like he was trying to soak up the warmth of Sideswipe’s plating. Or reassure himself that Sideswipe was still alive.

“I was on triage duty today,” Ratchet began brokenly, his vocalizer still randomly spitting static. Sideswipe stared in surprise – he hadn’t actually expected Ratchet to say anything. Not without him prying and pushing.

“We were,” Ratchet continued unsteadily. “We were swamped. There were injured coming in constantly, too many to keep track of.” He in-vented shakily. “There was nowhere not covered in energon. My hands were tingling from dissipating spark energy.”

Sideswipe cautiously raised his arm and placed it around Ratchet’s trembling shoulders. “Yeah, it was a bad one all right.”

But Ratchet was shaking his head. “No. Well, yes, it was, but that’s not it.” He in-vented heavily again. “There were three of us there, three medics. So I didn’t see every patient that was brought in. And sometimes I was running, keeping pressure on some mech’s lines while he was being moved to the med bay for surgery. So I missed it. Somehow. I missed it.” He pulled away slightly, pulled in on himself. “I failed.”

“I’m fairly sure you didn’t.” Sideswipe felt like he had to object, even though he didn’t know what it was Ratchet was supposed to have failed at. “I’ve never known anyone who tries as hard as you, Ratch. If everyone was like you, we’d have won this a long time ago.”

Ratchet shook his head again. “No, I failed. I should have been there. And I – I should have – I –“

Sideswipe pulled him closer, putting both arms around the medic this time. Ratchet was a tense ball of shivers against him. “Shh, Ratch. Slow down, vent. Take your time.”

“I. Yes.” Ratchet rebooted his vocalizer. “The less critical mechs were stacked three high. And they were talking. And I just heard part of it, but they said – they said –“’

He burrowed in against Sideswipe’s plating.

“Said what?” Sideswipe prodded carefully.

“That the twins had looked for me,” Ratchet mumbled. “The twins had come to find me, one brother half carrying the other. The second brother was the worse off, with his spark casing exposed, his shoulder torn to shreds, leaking everywhere. And they’d kept asking for me, begging for me to help them.” Finally Ratchet raised his head to look at Sideswipe again. His expression was pained, full of grief. “And I ran. I ran to the surgical suites, to the intensive care units, I ran everywhere, and finally I found them.”

Sideswipe waited. He had no idea who Ratchet was talking about, but he was clearly upset. So waiting for him to continue seemed like the best bet.

“I found them in the morgue,” Ratchet said dully. “Apparently, when one half of the shared spark guttered, the other followed.”

Sideswipe winced. The scenario was familiar, something he and Sunstreaker faced every time they went to battle. At this point, it was such a constant that it was almost an old friend. But it had clearly upset Ratchet – Ratchet, who always feared that an injury he couldn’t treat would take out not just one of them, but both.

He tightened his arms around the other mech. “Ratchet, I’m so sorry. Who were they?”

“Lustre and Sheen,” Ratchet murmured. “A pair of twins I had the pleasure to meet in a bar once. Pretty shades of dusky green and silver grey, sweet voices, smooth plating. Ironhide’s enjoyed their services often, and they adored him for it. They were young, and naïve, and innocent for all that they weren’t.” His voice became shaky. “Lustre dragged his brother to the Autobots, probably remembering my name and hoping I could help them. But I didn’t even see them in triage, and even if I had, it would have made no difference. Sheen’s spark casing was cracked all the way through. There was nothing we could have done.”

Sideswipe had a feeling that he finally knew what had upset Ratchet so badly. It was textbook Ratchet, really. “Then you shouldn’t feel guilty about not being able to help them. I hate that the civilians were caught in it, but them dying was the Decepticons’ fault, not yours.”

The medic shook his head. He almost looked ashamed. “You don’t get it. I wish that was it. I wish I was grieving just for them, for them and the other civilians caught in a battle they couldn’t fight. But it’s not. I barely remembered their names – it even took me a moment to recognize them, realize that I did know them. No. When I found them, all I could feel was relief.”

Sideswipe stared at him. The dots finally connected in his mind. “You thought they were us. Me and Sunstreaker.”

“I was sure it was you,” Ratchet admitted. “Twins who were looking for me? Torn half to shreds? Of course I thought it was you two. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t bear the thought of – and then, when I realized it wasn’t you, I was so relieved. I was _happy_ to see dead twins that weren’t you.” He lowered his head. “I’m a horrible person.”

“You are no such thing,” Sideswipe said firmly, pulling the medic close again. “Anyone would have reacted that way. I know that when Sunny’s down and I can’t find him, every dead frame that isn’t him is a relief.”

Ratchet looked up at him for a moment, then looked away. “You still don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” Sideswipe said softly.

Seeing Ratchet like this was rare. The medic was usually all bluster, hiding how much he cared behind hard wrenches and even harsher words. But Sideswipe had heard how he talked when he thought they were in forced recharge. He knew Ratchet much better than Ratchet thought he did. So when Ratchet – predictably – shook his head again and clammed up, Sideswipe just pulled him into his lap.

“Here’s what I do understand.” He raised his voice slightly to be heard over Ratchet’s indignant, staticky squeal. “You care. You care a lot more than everyone thinks. And for some reason, you care about me and my brother. I know it tears at your spark to send us back out there time after time, to have us coming back into your medbay after every slagging battle. But you handle it, and you work through it and move on, because you have to. And now you came face to face with the very real possibility that we were both gone and there was nothing you could do about it.”

All the tension seemed to leave Ratchet in one heavy ex-vent. He clung to Sideswipe’s arm. “Yeah,” he admitted. “And I’m still freaked out, not because two kids I kind of knew are dead and gone, but because I’m still terrified it could have been you. Someday, it will be you.”

“Not today, though,” Sideswipe countered. He couldn’t very well argue the point, because Ratchet was right. They were warriors. One day, it most likely would be them. “Not today. We’re both fine today.”

“Today,” Ratchet repeated dully.

Sideswipe frowned. Ratchet didn’t seem to be calming down much – he was still trembling, still clinging.

Desperate measures were needed.

-Sunny.-

His brother sent a wordless affirmation back at him.

-You in recharge?-

-I _was_ ,- was the grumpy reply. –What’s going on?-

-I need you to come to Ratchet’s quarters,- Sideswipe replied. –We’re going to stay here with him tonight.-

-We’re going to _what_ now? Sides, did you take a hit to the helm today and didn’t tell me about it?-

-Shut up. He’s terrified. He thought we died today. So we’re going to stay here with him tonight so he knows we’re alive.-

Over the bond, he could feel Sunstreaker deliberating. His brother wasn’t prone to casual intimacy – he chose his partners, enjoyed the interfacing, and didn’t let it get beyond that. But this wasn’t romance. It wasn’t even intimacy. It was just comfort.

And Sunstreaker liked Ratchet, just like Sideswipe did. The medic took care of them.

-Fine. I’m on my way.-

Sideswipe pinged his brother with the access code, and settled back on the couch with Ratchet in his arms.

 

It didn’t take long. Ratchet had barely taken more than a handful of deep, shuddering in-vents before the door slid open to admit Sunstreaker.

And his bucket of polish supplies.

Sideswipe eyed him questioningly. -What’s with the stuff?-

-You said he was freaking out,- Sunstreaker replied defensively. -Polishing’s soothing.-

-You would think so,- Sideswipe countered, smiling up at his brother. –But sure, let’s give it a try, if he wants.- He noticed the way Sunstreaker’s optics landed on the trembling medic in his lap. Clearly, he was worried too. –It’s a really nice thought, bro.-

Sunstreaker huffed. He pulled a pair of energon cubes from his subspace and placed them on the table in front of the small couch.

Sideswipe beamed up at his brother. Sunstreaker may be the most prickly mech in existence, but he had a big spark. He just didn’t show it that often.

“Ratchet,” Sideswipe crooned, trying to bring the medic back to the present again. “Hey. You need to refuel. And then we’re going to get these scrapes off you.”

Ratchet roused enough to look around blearily. He was still shivering. “We? Oh. Hi, Sunstreaker.” He reached out towards the golden mech hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Sunstreaker replied grudgingly. “I’m here too.” He shifted forward minutely, allowing Ratchet’s hand to land on his leg. Sideswipe suppressed a smile – the list of bots allowed to just touch Sunstreaker’s polished plating was short, but Ratchet had treated them so many times that Sunstreaker trusted him implicitly by now. Even enough to come to Ratchet’s help simply because Sideswipe asked for it.

He picked up one of the energon cubes and put it in Ratchet’s hands. “Refuel, Ratchet. And then let us take care of you.”

“You, too, Sides,” Sunstreaker said pointedly. “I know you’ve been running around all day, looking for this one.”

“You looked for me?” Ratchet asked quietly.

“Of course I did. Now refuel.” Sideswipe pushed the cube towards Ratchet’s mouth, watching as the medic drank it down.

And suffered his brother’s stare as he emptied his own cube. Sunstreaker didn’t let up until both cubes were empty.

-Tell me what’s going on.-

Sideswipe nodded, relating the whole story. It didn’t take too long. And to his surprise, Sunstreaker reacted by bending down and plucking Ratchet right up off Sideswipe’s lap and carrying him over to the berth.

“No polishing tonight,” he said gruffly. “That’s for tomorrow. Sides, get your aft over here.”

-Bro, what are you doing?-

-Remember Simfur? When we got separated?-

-And you couldn’t find me after,- Sideswipe replied in growing understanding. –And when you finally did, I was in more pieces than actually make me up normally, and you kept tripping over parts of my legs while hunting for the rest of me. Yeah, I remember. Ratchet had to pretty much rebuild my entire frame.-

-And I wouldn’t leave your side for a solid decaorn,- Sunstreaker said. –I was terrified that if I took my optics off you for just one moment, you’d be gone. The only way I could recharge was if I could feel your spark.-

Sideswipe could practically _feel_ the metaphorical bulb going off inside his head. -And you think this is similar.-

-I know it’s not the same,- his brother agreed, apparently picking up on Sideswipe’s doubts. –He’s not of our spark. But he cares. And he’s scared. So in that way, yeah, it’s the same. And I’ll bet your polishing kit that he won’t recharge without us.-

-You’re probably right, bro.- Sideswipe ignored Ratchet’s weak protests and lay down beside him, pulling him close again. “Easy, Ratchet. We’re just staying here with you tonight. So you’ll know we’re okay.”

“You don’t have to,” Ratchet tried, pushing and prying at Sideswipe’s arms to get him to let go. “I’ll be fine. I will.”

Sideswipe just tightened his hold. “Yeah, you will. And we’ll be here to make sure of it.”

“Scratch my paint and I’ll make you redo it,” Sunstreaker grumbled, settling against Ratchet’s other side.

“Don’t listen to him.” Sideswipe grinned at Ratchet’s flummoxed expression. “He’s just posturing. I’ll fix his paint if needed.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Ratchet repeated. Though the tension was gradually bleeding from his frame, so Sideswipe figured they were onto something.

“I know we don’t, but it’s the least we can do,” he replied. “You’ve fixed us up often enough. Let us reciprocate for once.”

Ratchet didn’t seem to have any response to that. He looked from Sideswipe to Sunstreaker with wide optics.

It was such an uncommon expression for the medic that Sideswipe had to chuckle. “What? Is it so weird that we’d be nice to you?”

Ratchet smiled, and it was a relief to see him come back to himself a bit. “You have to admit, you’re not exactly running true to form here.”

“So we’re making an exception for you,” Sideswipe said lightly. “Face it, Ratch, you’re one of our favorites. Favorites get special treatment.”

“Will you two shut up and recharge?” Sunstreaker complained. “In case you forgot, it’s been a really long day.”

Ratchet looked at him for a moment, then smiled softly. “Of course, Sunstreaker.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then rested one hand on Sideswipe’s arm and the other on Sunstreaker’s leg, thrown haphazardly across his own to intertwine with Sideswipe’s. “Pleasant recharge.”

“Pleasant recharge, Ratchet.” Sideswipe rested his helm against the medic’s. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

 

-Sides.-

-Mrrmm. Sleeping here, bro.-

- _Sideswipe._ Look _._ -

Sideswipe forced his optics to online, blearily meeting his brother’s stare. A very focused stare for what was really, _really_ early in the morning. At least Ratchet was still out, recharging with the most peaceful expression Sideswipe had seen on his face in – well, ever.

He was also scrunched up against Sideswipe’s chest, cheek resting against the plating over his spark.

-Um. Well, okay, that’s… ridiculously cute, actually.-

Cue another of his brother’s merciless glares. -He was mumbling in his recharge, too.-

-About me?-

-About _us_.-

Sunstreaker looked meaningfully down at Ratchet. Only now did Sideswipe notice that the medic had managed to snag his brother as well – Sunstreaker’s right arm was trapped underneath Ratchet’s solid frame, and Ratchet had somehow managed to pin Sunny’s leg between his own and Sideswipe’s.

Then Sunny’s words registered. –Wait, about _us_? What did he say?-

-It wasn’t coherent. But it went along the lines of ‘oh no, not them’ and ‘please, not Sideswipe’ and ‘Sunny, no, please, no’ and ‘don’t leave me’.-

Sideswipe… didn’t quite know what to say to that. He’d been surprised at how much Ratchet cared the day before – the medic often threw epic tantrums after he’d fixed them, but he did that to other bots as well, so Sideswipe hadn’t thought much about it.

There were the few times he’d half-woken in medbay in the middle of the night to find Ratchet talking to them. But for all he knew, Ratchet treated all his stasis-bound patients as sounding boards.

This, though? This suggested there was something more. And that was probably why Sunny had woken him up.

He looked up at his brother. –Do you need to get away?-

Cool blue optics met his own, then looked down at the still recharging medic. –No. He’s not pressuring me, Sides.-

-Well, aside from the obvious,- Sideswipe joked, using his free hand to poke at where his brother’s arm was trapped.

-Very funny.- Sunstreaker looked back at him again, his face serious. –Do _you_ need to get away?-

Sideswipe took the question as what it was; an opening to let him pull back from this, to let him keep Ratchet at arm’s length if that was what he wanted. He didn’t have the same issues with relationships and romance that Sunny did, but there had been enough bad experiences that he was hesitant to let someone in again.

But, somehow, his usual doubts and fears didn’t seem to apply to Ratchet.

-Nah, I’m good. It’s as you said, he doesn’t pressure. Thanks, though.-

They lay there in silence for a little while. Sideswipe watched his brother watching Ratchet, taking in all the little dents and imperfections in the medic’s plating. His frown deepened until he looked personally offended.

Sideswipe cracked a grin. –You’re going to make him take you up on that offer of polish, aren’t you?-

-He needs it desperately. Look at him. I don’t think he’s done more than the necessary cleaning for the last vorn.- Sunstreaker looked almost desperate.

-Well, if we let him in, you’ll get plenty of chances.-

-…yeah. If we let him in.-

They didn’t get to agree on whether to actually let him in or not. Ratchet stirred between them, making tiny noises that were so adorable Sideswipe almost refused to believe they came out of a grown mech. Blue optics lit up slowly, arms and legs were pulled free and stretched, and then Ratchet finally seemed to realize where he was. And who was there with him.

“What are you two pains in my aft still doing here?” he asked gruffly, and Sideswipe crowed internally to see the medic more or less back to himself.

“You pinned us,” Sunstreaker replied in the same grumpy tones.

Ratchet looked down at how they were tangled together. “Guess I did. So why didn’t you just push me off?”

Sideswipe smiled his most charming smile. “Because you were so adorable, Ratchet. We couldn’t bear to disturb you.”

He was treated to the exquisite sight of Ratchet blushing. Of course, the medic tried to cover it up by being extra frowny and gruff as he pulled his legs free and got out of berth.

There was something about his entire demeanor that just tugged at Sideswipe.

-I want to let him in, bro.-

-Yeah. I can tell you do.-

Their optics met. Sunstreaker was apprehensive, Sideswipe could tell, but he suddenly realized he needed to give this – whatever it was – a try. And he needed Sunstreaker to try alongside him, wanting the same thing he did. –Please?-

Sunstreaker sighed. –Slowly, okay? I don’t want to have to…-

-I know. I won’t let it get to that,- Sideswipe promised. He looked up at Ratchet, who was busy running a clean cloth over his plating and downing a cube of energon he’d pulled from somewhere. -He’s worth it, though. I can feel it.-

“I have a double shift coming up, so I have to leave,” Ratchet said. “There’s a lot of repair still to do after yesterday, and Bluestreak is coming in for his appointment later as well.” He looked at Sunstreaker. “I’d say you should come, but why don’t you take advantage of the fact that my quarters have attached wash racks? You already brought your stuff here.”

-That’s Ratchet-ese for ‘thanks’.-

-I know, Sides.-

“You can just let yourselves out when you’re done,” Ratchet continued. “You managed to get in here, so getting out shouldn’t be a problem.” He dispersed the cube and turned towards the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Okay,” Sideswipe agreed. “Hey, want to refuel with us later? On your break?”

“I don’t get a break,” Ratchet argued. “I’m stuck in medbay all day. There’s too much to do.”

Sunstreaker smirked. “Well, what if we drag you out of there?”

Ratchet glared at him. “You can’t just go dragging me out of medbay. I’m needed there for my full shift, I can’t leave. I just can’t.”

-That’s Ratchet-ese for ‘I can’t leave by myself, please make me’.-

-I _know_ , Sides.-

“Well, what if we ask Prowl to give you enough time off to refuel?” Sideswipe pointed out. “Or talk to any of the other medics, see if they think it’s recommendable for you to go through a whole double shift without a break?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” But Ratchet’s look had softened somewhat, from irate to incredulous. “Why do you care, anyway?”

Sunstreaker shrugged. “We care because you do.”

That called out the glare again. “I care about everyone under my care.”

Sideswipe shot him a cheeky grin. “Yeah, but you care extra about us. We’re special.”

“Special banes of my existence,” Ratchet grouched. But there was a faint blush across his cheeks.

-That’s Ratchet-ese for-

-I **_know_** , Sides. Now _mute it_.-

Sunstreaker gave Ratchet his most neutral look. “We’ll pick you up later. And we’ll refuel together.”

Ratchet frowned, but then he seemed to give up, throwing his hands up and huffing at them. “Fine. I’ll see you later.” He groaned and grumbled to himself as he walked out, sliding the door shut behind him.

Sideswipe grinned. “Looks like we’ve got a date later.”

“Looks like.” Sunstreaker stood, stretching, and went to get his polishing kit. “I’m going to hit the wash rack. You coming?”

“Nah.” Sideswipe stretched, arms over his head, and burrowed into the soft surface of Ratchet’s berth. “I’m going to stay here a little longer.”

He dimmed his optics, listening as his brother turned the solvent on and waiting for the inevitable explosion when Sunstreaker realized that the cleansers Ratchet had were more industrial-grade paint strippers than anything else.

When the roar came, followed by the expected huff and grumble of an annoyed Sunstreaker hunting down his own polishing kit, Sideswipe turned over and slipped back into recharge.


	8. Bluestreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak is a small bitlet on a big base full of Autobots. But he has Jazz to keep him safe.

_Yesterday a child came out to wonder_

_Caught a dragonfly inside a jar_

_Fearful when the sky was full of thunder_

_And tearful at the falling of a star_

_\- Joni Mitchell: The Circle Game -_

 

“Here we go, bit. You hungry?”

Bluestreak nodded, but kept his arms around Jazz’s neck as they entered the rec room. This room was big, the biggest Jazz and Prowl had taken Blue to, and there were always a lot of mecha and tables and noise. It scared Bluestreak a little, even though he’d been there several times now.

It was a good thing that Jazz was there. He’d promised to take care of Bluestreak and keep him safe.

So Bluestreak nodded, yes, he was hungry, and pointed to where the machine that poured out energon stood. Then he held on tight as Jazz walked across the room.

“One big cube for me, and one small cube for you. Wanna do th’ honors?” Jazz smiled down at him as he held up the little tube of additives Ratchet had said Bluestreak needed in his fuel.

Bluestreak grinned. He held the tube still for Jazz to twist the tip off, and then squeezed as hard as he could, pouring the stuff inside into the cube.

“There we go, love.” Jazz took the almost empty tube and squeezed the rest out. “So, see anyone you want t’ sit with today?”

Bluestreak looked around. There were a lot of mechs here, but he didn’t know any of them. He frowned up at Jazz. “Where Bubblebee? Where Blastoh?”

Jazz grinned. He liked when Bluestreak used his words, though he seemed to like it when he didn’t, too.

Jazz just seemed to like Bluestreak. And Blue was happy with that.

“Bumblebee’s workin’, baby Blue, and Blaster’s in recharge. He worked all night. D’you see anyone else you want to say hi to?”

Bluestreak looked around again. Some of the mechs were too loud, and he didn’t like that, and some of them looked grumpy, and he didn’t like that at all. But there was one who looked nice, and he was quite close.

He pointed. “Who that?”

“That’s Hound,” Jazz replied. “He’s nice. Want to go say hi?”

Bluestreak nodded. He hid his face against Jazz’s plating as they walked over to the table, though, only peeking out when they stopped. Just to be sure.

“Hey Hound,” Jazz said. “Mind if we sit down here?”

The green mech looked up at Jazz, then at Bluestreak, optics brightening in surprise. “Uh, sure! If you want, I mean.” He smiled. “You must be Bluestreak, huh? It’s good to meet you.”

When Hound smiled, his optics crinkled in the corners. He looked kind.

Bluestreak decided he liked him.

He let go of Jazz’s neck, turning around in Jazz’s arms as he sat down. He fit perfectly underneath Jazz’s bumper. This close, he could feel the warmth of Jazz’s spark, just like when he curled up against him for recharge. It was comforting, and Bluestreak wanted to snuggle in against the warmth and safety, but the green Hound mech was looking at him again.

“Can you say hi, bit?” Jazz asked, handing him his small cube.

“Hi, Hound,” Bluestreak said shyly. He hid behind his fuel, looking up at the other mech.

“Hi, Bluestreak,” Hound replied, smiling again.

“So how’re things?” Jazz asked. “Last I heard, you were stuck on night shifts?”

“Yeah, I was.” Hound smiled, looking down. “Ironhide did me a solid and traded me around with Windcharger, at least until Mirage is cleared for duty again.”

Bluestreak stopped listening to them. Grownup talk was _boring_. So he sipped at his fuel, cuddling in against Jazz’s plating and spark-hum and using the safety of his perch to sneak glances at the other mechs.

There was a loud mech over in the corner. He was _really_ loud for being as small as Bumblebee, and the other ones were just as small but a bit less shouty. It was hard to tell if they were having fun or being angry with each other – it seemed to be a bit of both. Bluestreak was happy he wasn’t sitting with them.

A few tables over, a mech was drinking his energon and reading a datapad. He had doorwings, like Bluestreak’s and Prowl’s! He looked _a lot_ like Prowl, really, and Bluestreak leaned forward to get a better look, his own wings flittered in curiosity. He poked Jazz in the stomach. “Jazz? Who that?”

Jazz stopped talking mid-sentence. “Who’s who, bitlet?”

Bluestreak pointed, and his doorwings fluttered again. “Him, Jazzy! Got wings! Look!”

Jazz chuckled. “That’s Smokescreen. He’s a Praxian too, just like you an’ your new carrier. You can meet him ‘nother time, bit, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Bluestreak said. He was a bit sad that he couldn’t meet the mech now, though. He had wings! “Why?”

“He’s busy,” Jazz replied. His thumb rubbed Bluestreak’s tummy. It felt nice. “He’s fillin’ in for Prowl, that means a lot of extra work. We’ll talk to him another time.”

Bluestreak frowned, but nodded. He understood being busy, Prowl had taught him what that meant. “Okay.”

Next to Smokescreen, a bit closer to Bluestreak’s table, there was another mech sitting by himself. He was mostly white, and his head was… weird.

Prowl had said he shouldn’t call people weird. It was okay to say _unusual_ , or _interesting_ , or _fascinating_ , or _captivating_ – but they were all really difficult words, and Prowl was the only one Bluestreak knew who used that kind of words. But Prowl said that some people got sad when you said they were weird, so it wasn’t a very nice thing to say.

That mech’s head _was_ a bit weird, though.

Bluestreak kept looking. The mech had a face mask, just like Optimus Prime did. And he had wings sticking out of his helm. It made him look funny. He didn’t look scary, though – he was just sitting there, all quiet. Just like Prowl sometimes did.

But then he looked up and caught Bluestreak staring. Bluestreak squeaked and ducked down to hide behind his energon cube.

When he dared to raise his head again, peeking at the mech over the rim of his cube, the mech winked at him. The weird wings on his helm blinked blue.

Bluestreak stared again.

The mech had a _glowy head_.

Slowly, he sat up straight again and tried to wink back. But he couldn’t quite manage, so ended up dimming both optics instead.

The mech smiled at him. Or Bluestreak thought he did, since his optics crinkled at the corners just like Hound’s did when he smiled.

When Bluestreak lifted his hand in a tiny wave, the mech waved back. His helm wings blinked again.

Bluestreak smiled widely.

The strange mech raised his hands, hiding his face. Then he pulled his hands away real fast and blinked his helm wings brightly.

Bluestreak giggled.

Jazz’s hand stilled on his tummy. “What’re you laughin’ at, baby Blue?”

“Look!” Bluestreak pointed just as the mech flashed his helm wings again. “Lights!”

Jazz chuckled. “Makin’ friends, are ya?” He raised his voice. “Hey, Wheeljack! Come join us!”

Hound pushed his chair aside to make room as the funny mech carried his cube over to sit at their table. Bluestreak was still staring at him, but the mech was staring at him too, so it was probably okay.

“Bluestreak, this is Wheeljack,” Jazz said. “’Jack’s an engineer. Means he builds things.”

Those lights blinked again. Bluestreak giggled.

“Hey, Bluestreak,” the mech said. “It’s nice to meet you. You know, I got somethin’ for you!”

Bluestreak squealed, and Jazz had to take his energon cube before he spilled it everywhere. He knew those words.

Wheeljack’s helm wings flashed, and he pulled out a little box. “I made this for you, Blue, when I heard you got to stay with Prowl and Jazz. It’s a… welcome present, I guess.”

“What do you say, Blue?” Jazz prompted.

“Thank you!” Bluestreak chirped. He took the box eagerly, and shook it. Something rattled inside.

“Want some help with that?” Hound held out a hand for Bluestreak’s new box.

Bluestreak didn’t need help, though. He bit down on it, and the whole top came off.

“Or you can do it like that,” Hound said, sounding amused. “Primus, he’s adorable, Jazz.”

“My treasure,” Jazz said, kissing the top of Bluestreak’s helm.

Inside the box, there was a tiny toy figure. It looked a lot like Prowl’s alt mode, except the colors were wrong – the toy was a shiny silver with green racing stripes. It fit just right in Blue’s hand.

“The wheels work,” Wheeljack said, wings blinking again. “If you put it on a smooth surface and pull back, it’ll drive on its own.”

“That’s really cool,” Jazz commented.

“Cool!” Bluestreak agreed. He’d learned about cool from Jazz. It was one of his new sire’s favorite words, so now it was Bluestreak’s favorite word too.

He held the car up towards Wheeljack, shaking it slightly. “Drive?”

“Want me to show you?” Wheeljack took the car and slid out of his seat to sit on the floor.

Bluestreak _loved_ when the adults played with him on the floor. He wiggled and twitched until Jazz chuckled and put him down as well.

Bluestreak watched as Wheeljack pulled the silver car back and then let it go. It zoomed across the floor before smacking into Smokescreen’s leg, wheels still going fast enough that the toy flipped over, rolling twice before finally coming to a stop upside down.

Bluestreak laughed so hard he fell over. “Again! Again!”

Smokescreen smiled at him and leaned down to pick up the car. “Hey, Bluestreak. I’m sending this back to you, ‘kay?”

“Okay!” Bluestreak chirped brightly, pushing himself back up. “Thank you!”

“He’s getting talkative, isn’t he?” Hound said behind him, as Wheeljack reached out to catch the silver car as it sped towards them.

“Yeah, he is.” Jazz rested his hand on Bluestreak’s head, thumb rubbing across his chevron. “Ratchet says he should probably have been talkin’ more’n he is, anyway, considerin’ what we believe his age t’ be, but with everythin’ that’s happened… We’re takin’ what we get and are just glad t’ see him happy.”

“All sparklings develop differently,” Wheeljack offered, sitting back down with the toy in his hand. “And he’s doin’ perfectly well. Want to try, Blue?”

Bluestreak took the silver car. He pressed it down against the floor and pulled it back, and it zoomed off again.

This time it flew past Smokescreen’s table, bumped into a table leg, swerved off to the side and vanished behind the legs of a mech walking past.

And was gone. He didn’t see where it stopped, and now it was _gone_.

Bluestreak’s lower lip wobbled. His door wings trembled.

Then he burst into tears.

“Oh, bitlet.” Jazz’s hands picked him up, and he was cradled against that familiar frame. “What happened?”

“Gone!” Bluestreak cried. “Gone, Jazzy!”

Another hand touched his back gently. “Don’t worry, Bluestreak,” Wheeljack said. “I saw where it went. I’ll go get it for you, okay?”

Bluestreak managed to nod. “’Kay,” he sniffled. He turned his head to watch Wheeljack cross the room. Jazz crooned at him and rubbed circles across his back.

Wheeljack stopped at the loud table and talked to the mechs sitting there. Bluestreak watched with wide optics as all the small bots slid from their chairs and started crawling around on the floor.

It didn’t take long at all before the small red loud bot stood back up with something silver in his hand. He gave it to Wheeljack, smiling and waving at Bluestreak before sitting back down with his cube.

“Let’s wipe those tears away, baby Blue,” Jazz murmured. “Cliffjumper found your toy, see? ‘Jack’s bringin’ it back now.” He ran a thumb across Bluestreak’s cheek.

Bluestreak nodded and let Jazz wipe away the tears with a soft cloth.

Wheeljack crouched in front of them, holding out the silver toy. “Here, bit. No harm done.”

“Thank you,” Bluestreak managed. He took the toy carefully. Then he reached for Wheeljack.

“Oh,” Wheeljack said softly, then unfamiliar hands took him, cradling him close to an unfamiliar frame.

Still safe, though. Wheeljack was a friend, and safe.

Wheeljack sat down with him, and Bluestreak leaned sideways against Wheeljack’s chest and rested his head against the warm white plating. He was very tired, suddenly.

Jazz was smiling at them. “You should be proud, ‘Jack. You’re the first one he’s wanted t’ pick him up aside from Prowler an’ me. Everyone else have t’ handle watching from a distance.”

“He’s precious.” Bluestreak’s helm was nuzzled. “Thanks for trustin’ me with him, Jazz.”

“He really is adorable.” Hound grinned. “And he calls you ‘Jazzy’. That’s so cute.”

Jazz shrugged, smiling. “He can call me anythin’ he likes, I don’t mind.”

Bluestreak snuggled closer to Wheeljack, relaxing into the arms cradling him. It was hard to stay online now. And when Wheeljack began rocking him gently, he yawned widely and slipped into recharge, still with his new toy in his hand.

 

“Rrrrrrrr! Beep beep!” The silver car raced across the floor. Bluestreak crawled as fast as he could, pushing the car along. “Rrrrrrr rrrrrrr.”

Prowl sat down on the floor next to him and ran a hand down his back.

“Hello, my love. I heard you had an eventful day.”

“Rrrrrrrr!” Bluestreak kept pushing the car. He hadn’t tried letting it go, in case it drove off on its own again. Wheeljack wasn’t here to find it for him this time.

“That’s your new toy? It’s very nice.”

“Jack,” Bluestreak replied, holding the car up for Prowl to see. “Cool.”

“Very cool.” Prowl smiled at him. “I’m glad you made a friend, Bluestreak. Do you want to spend time with Wheeljack another day?”

Bluestreak nodded and drove the car down the top of Prowl’s leg.

“That’s my good bitlet,” Prowl murmured. He leaned down and kissed Bluestreak’s head. “Ready for your bath and berth-time story?”

Bluestreak frowned, showing Prowl the car again. “Busy.”

Jazz dropped down on the other side of Bluestreak, stretching his legs out and chuckling. “I can see that, sweetspark. You’re havin’ too much fun t’ go to berth, ain’t you?”

Jazz looked at Prowl. Prowl looked at Jazz, then at Bluestreak. Then he smiled, and his doorwings dipped. “All right then. Ten more minutes.” He held out a hand towards the car. “Can I try your new toy?”

Bluestreak grinned and gave him the toy. Then he crawled into Prowl’s lap and rested against his stomach. “Rrrrrrr.”

“That’s right, love. Rrrrrrr.” Prowl pulled the car back and let it go. It sped across the floor only to crash into Jazz’s stretched-out leg.

This time, Bluestreak didn't lose track of it for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one really fought me. So I'd love to hear what you think :)


	9. Wheeljack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack can't have good things. Or so he tells himself.  
> Trailbreaker has other ideas.

_I'm a lonesome polecat_

_Lonesome, sad and blue_

_‘cause I ain't got no Feminine polecat_

_Vowin' to be true_

_Oo-oo-Oo-oo-Oo-oo-Oo-oo_

_Can't make no vows_

_To a heard of cows_

 

_I'm a mean old hound dog_

_Bayin' at the moon_

_‘cause I ain't got no_

_Lady friend hound dog_

_Here to hear my tune_

_Oo-oo-Oo-oo-Oo-oo-Oo-oo_

_A man can't sleep_

_When he sleeps with sheep_

 

_I'm a little old hoot owl_

_Hootin' in the trees_

_‘cause I ain't got no_

_Little gal owl fowl_

_Here to shoot the breeze_

_Oo-oo-Oo-oo-Oo-oo-Oo-oo_

_Can't shoot no breeze_

_With a bunch of trees_

_\- Lonesome polecat, from Seven brides for seven brothers-_

 

Bluestreak stood carefully, holding on to the chair, still wobbly on his pedes. Wheeljack smiled at him. Not that Bluestreak could see it – the last Wheeljack wanted was to remove his mask and scare the bit with how he looked, now that he was actually getting comfortable with other mecha.

There was a ping at the door, forcing Wheeljack to tear himself away from the sparkling. “That’ll be your carrier, Blue. You ready to go home?”

“P’owl!” Bluestreak exclaimed, tottering towards the door as fast as he could. He fell over more than once, but that didn’t deter him much. There was a lot of will in Bluestreak.

Wheeljack palmed the door open to let Prowl in. It was always funny to see Prowl, Head Tactical Officer, second-in-command of the entire Autobot army and generally considered to be the sternest, hardest and most unfeeling of them all, melt into a puddle at the sight of a tiny sparkling beaming up at him.

Of course, Prowl’s image was just that, an image. Wheeljack knew the point of a decent image well enough.

“He’s all fueled an’ ready for berth,” he offered. “Been a true joy to have around, as usual.”

“Thank you so much for watching him,” Prowl replied, smiling and kneeling down to catch the sparkling barreling towards him with all the unstoppable force of a determined bitlet heading for its carrier. “Have you had fun with Wheeljack, love?”

“Fun!” Bluestreak agreed eagerly. “Made poof! An’ fueled! An’ Jackie sang a song!”

“The poof was harmless, I promise,” Wheeljack said hurriedly. “We popped bubbles. I wouldn’t endanger him.”

“I know,” Prowl replied, smiling briefly at him. “We trust you, Wheeljack.”

Well, wasn’t that a thing.

“And pic-tors!”

“Yeah, we watched old pictures, didn’t we, Blue?” Wheeljack agreed, smiling again.

“Yeah! Foxes! An’ woofs! An’…” He frowned and looked up at Wheeljack. “What dey called?”

“Foxes and wolves, yes, and hawks and stags,” Wheeljack replied. He met Prowl’s optics. “I had an old documentary of wildlife on Cybertron and froze some stills for him to look at.”

“Dey runnin’!” Bluestreak chirped happily. “An’ flyin’!”

“That sounds like fun, my love,” Prowl crooned. He stood up easily, bitlet cradled against his chassis. “And now I think it’s time to get you to berth. Can you say goodbye to Wheeljack?”

“Hug!”

Wheeljack couldn’t resist the small arms reaching for him. He’d like to see anyone who could, really – Bluestreak could charm even the coldest spark.

“Goodnight, Blue,” he said softly. “I’ll see you another time.”

“Bye bye Jackie!”

He waited until Prowl and his tiny charge had rounded the corner into the next corridor before he stepped outside his quarters and locked the door behind him. He’d deal with the cleanup later – right now he didn’t want to be alone in there.

Instead, he headed for the rec room. It was predictably crowded, the usual end-of-shift chaos, and Wheeljack managed to sneak one of the last empty tables. He cradled his energon cube and tried to give off an air of oh-shit-Wheeljack’s-thinking-again-wonder-what’s-going-to-go-boom-next.

He succeeded for a while.

Inevitably, though, there were too many mechs for them all to ignore a mostly empty table, and someone stopped by the vacant chair.

“Hey, Wheeljack. Mind if I sit down?”

He glanced up at the dark mech. Not the worst of company, really, if he had to have some. “Sure, Trailbreaker, go ahead.”

Trailbreaker sat, clutching his own cube, and gave Wheeljack a tentative smile. “Thanks. You off shift?”

“All day,” Wheeljack confirmed. “I’m waitin’ for the results on something Percy and I are workin’ on, and I can’t really do much until they’re ready.”

“Ah, okay.” Trailbreaker nodded, smiling slightly. “Sounds kind of nice, actually. A whole shift off.”

“I’m certainly not complaining. How ‘bout you? Had an okay day?”

He listened somewhat patiently as Trailbreaker told him about the day’s patrol. Sounded like the ‘Cons were up to their same old tricks, and the Autobots were pinned down in the same old spots, and the war was raging.

Not much different from yesterday, really. Or last week. Or last month, for that matter.

“I like the patrol shifts,” Trailbreaker continued. “Though I’m looking forward to everything calming down enough for all of us to relax a bit.”

“Yeah, relaxin’s good,” Wheeljack agreed.

“It is. Though you don’t seem to be doing it right.”

That had his full attention. “Huh?”

“If you spent all day relaxing,” Trailbreaker said, giving him a look that was sharper than Wheeljack felt that visor should be able to produce. “Why do you seem more tired and down than pretty much every other mech in here?”

Sharp indeed.

“To tell you the truth,” Wheeljack admitted, “I’ve had Bluestreak today. I just handed him back.”

Trailbreaker frowned. “I thought the bitlet was settling in well.”

“Yeah, he’s a sweetheart,” Wheeljack agreed. “That’s part of the problem. Every time I hand him back, it damn near breaks my spark.”

He didn’t know why he was telling this to Trailbreaker all of a sudden. Sure, the mech was nice - a bit hesitant and quiet at times but friendly enough, steady and loyal. But he wasn’t really a _friend_ for all that. He wasn’t Ratchet, or Ironhide, or any of the admittedly few mecha Wheeljack counted as actual friends.

But Ratchet spent most of his free time with a twin on each arm these days, happy as a glow-lark. And Ironhide… Well, the mech would look either bemused or amazed, depending on whether he’d spent time off-shift with the Prime that day or not. Wheeljack wouldn’t pretend to know what was going on there, but the Prime was exuding this happiness that was clearly at odds with the way the war was going, and whenever Wheeljack saw Elita now she looked as smug as a voltaicat with a fresh kill.

It was kind of unnerving, really. But Ironhide at least seemed to be happy enough.

It was good to see his best friends happy. Though it left Wheeljack as a fourth wheel most of the time, which in most cases would be a good thing, but with the way everything was going three-wheeled lately he didn’t fit anymore.

Ratchet, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

Ironhide, Optimus and Elita.

Jazz, Prowl and Bluestreak.

And Wheeljack.

It sucked slag. To not put too fine a point on it.

Trailbreaker stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Though I have to admit, I didn’t know you were so fond of sparklings.”

“I always wanted a whole heap of them.” He downed the rest of his pitiful, annoying, plain mid-grade cube. “Not like that’s gonna happen now.”

“It may happen yet,” Trailbreaker replied, more cheerfully than Wheeljack felt the situation merited. “This war can’t last forever.”

Wheeljack scoffed at that. He’d seen the tactical plans. The command meetings were such a joy to sit through these days. “Well, keep hold of that optimism, mech. You’re gonna need it.”

Trailbreaker looked at him again, less sharply this time. Then he smiled slightly. “I think I know what you need. Just give me a half-hour to get it arranged. Can I come by your quarters later?”

Now it was Wheeljack’s turn to stare. That was remarkably un-hesitant for Trailbreaker. The mech never made the first move – pit, as far as Wheeljack had noticed, what little he had noticed, Trailbreaker never made a move at all.

Though it might not be a move. It might just be Trailbreaker trying to be nice.

Primus knew he would have to be insane to make a move on Wheeljack of all mechs, anyway.

Still, it didn’t hurt to be sure. “What do you have in mind?” he asked cautiously.

Trailbreaker smiled. “It’s a surprise. I think you’ll like it. I’ll bring it to your quarters, okay?”

It didn’t sound like Wheeljack had much of a choice in the matter. And it wasn’t like he had any other plans for his evening. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“Great.” Trailbreaker flashed him a grin and stood. “I’ll see you then.”

Wheeljack waited until the black mech had left before standing up with a sigh. He might as well get back to his quarters and tidy away the traces of Bluestreak still covering the space.

 

It wasn’t a full half-hour before there was a knock on the door. Wheeljack was just putting away the last sparkling bottle. He kicked at a left-behind building block and palmed the door open.

“Hi,” Trailbreaker said, a bashful smile on his face. “Mind letting me in?”

Wheeljack stood aside to let him by, closing the door again behind him. “So what’s the surprise?”

“This.” Trailbreaker pulled two cubes from his subspace. “Please don’t be an officer and report me for this. I may be bending the rules a bit to have them, but I got them fair and square.”

“Hmm.” Wheeljack took one of the cubes, unsealing it and sniffing at the contents. The scent alone was enough to have him pull back. “Whoa, that’s strong. Home-brewed?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell?” Trailbreaker said hopefully.

He was taking a bit of a chance with this, Wheeljack realized. Trailbreaker was a junior tactician, just a grunt really, and Wheeljack wasn’t just a superior officer, he was command staff. He could order Trailbreaker straight to the brig for this.

…Well, screw being command staff. He needed this.

The high-grade burned just as much on the way down as he’d suspected. Trailbreaker raised his own cube and grinned at him. “Here’s to optimism.”

“And getting a damn break for once,” Wheeljack agreed. He sipped at the high-grade again. “Pit, I’ve missed this.”

 

Somehow, they ended up seated on Wheeljack’s solitary sofa. Trailbreaker’s chin was resting in his hand, elbow on the table, and Wheeljack stretched out with his legs up on a stool and his head back against the wall.

He raised his cube to his mouth again. At some point in the last hour he’d taken his mask off, though he couldn’t remember either actually taking it off or where he’d put it.

Sideswipe’s high-grade was some seriously potent stuff.

“How did you know?” he slurred.

“Know what?” Trailbreaker’s voice was soft and low.

“That this was what I needed.”

Trailbreaker shrugged. “Figured drowning your troubles was the way to go.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” He raised his cube to empty the last of it, but there was nothing left. He frowned – he really couldn’t remember drinking the rest.

If this kept up, there would be a lot of things he wouldn’t remember.

“You don’ have to spend your evenin’ with me, though.” He put his cube down, a bit more forcefully than he’d intended. “There must be better ways for you to spend your time.”

Trailbreaker hesitated. “To be honest,” he murmured, staring into what was left of his own high-grade, “I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

Wheeljack stared at him. “What, get wasted in questionable company?”

“You’re not questionable company, Wheeljack,” Trailbreaker objected. He sounded more sober than he had any right to, with that much high-grade in his system. “I don’t know why you keep putting yourself down like that.”

“’Cause it’s simpler.” He leaned towards Trailbreaker, frowning at him. “How’re you not ridiculously overcharged?”

“Because my energy requirements are high enough to pretty much neutralize the high-grade instantly.” Trailbreaker smiled, but he didn’t look happy. “I can barely feel the kick, really.”

“Well, frag,” Wheeljack sighed. “Shoulda brought more than two cubes.”

“Not with the prices Sideswipe charges,” Trailbreaker chuckled.

“Huh. Well, next time’s on me, then.” He stared into Trailbreaker’s near-empty cube, frowning. There was something he’d meant to say… Oh, right. “So, what didya mean, you wanted to do this for a while?”

Trailbreaker looked away for a moment before meeting Wheeljack’s optics. He raised a hand, hesitating, before resting it lightly on Wheeljack’s arm. “Hang out. With you. I’ve been wanting to for a while.”

Wheeljack blinked. That was… unexpected. “Why?”

“Why?” Trailbreaker shook his head. “Because you’re a good guy, ‘Jack. You’re nice.” He looked away and mumbled something.

Wheeljack frowned. “Didya just say I’m easy on the optics?”

The grumble he got in response didn’t clarify anything, really.

“Hey.” He poked Trailbreaker’s arm. “Didya just say I’m easy on the optics?”

Trailbreaker turned back and looked at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Now it was Wheeljack’s turn to shake his head. “Mech, I’d say it was the high-grade, but you’re not near wasted enough for that.”

Trailbreaker snorted. “Like I’d have to be wasted to find you attractive.”

Wheeljack gave him a pointed look. He tilted his head to really show off the scars on his face. “You sure about that?”

Trailbreaker sighed. “It’s not just about the looks, ‘Jack. It’s… You’re sweet, and kind. You’re generous. And yeah, you’re hot as pit. Those?” He reached out, trailed a finger down Wheeljack’s scarred cheek. “They’re just a finishing touch.”

Wheeljack stared at him. Trailbreaker didn’t pull his hand back – he kept stroking, his thumb caressing Wheeljack’s cheek, his fingers cradling his jaw.

Well. To pit with it.

He was going to regret this tomorrow anyway.

Ignoring the little rational voice telling him to take things slow and not take advantage, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Trailbreaker’s.

 

… somehow, he didn’t regret it.

Oh, he regretted the high-grade. The pounding in his head, the churning in his tanks, all testament to the lackluster quality of Sideswipe’s brewing techniques? Those he totally regretted.

Onlining with Trailbreaker still in recharge next to him, one leg thrown haphazardly over Wheeljack’s own? That he didn’t regret at all.

And it was so strange. He’d expected to feel guilty, ashamed, maybe even upset, probably ready to kick his own aft for the next couple of weeks, but instead…

Instead, he was lying there, gazing at Trailbreaker’s slack features, taking in all the little details he’d never really noticed before. Like his hands – Trailbreaker’s fingers were thick and blunt, his palms broad. Dependable, strong hands, perfect for navigating uneven terrain.

Or for stretching a valve. Wheeljack’s was still tingling pleasantly.

Trailbreaker’s frame was nice, too. He had that certain esthetic that many scout frames had – solid, dependable, all strong plating and bulky build.

It was… kind of hot, to be honest.

Wheeljack’s own racing frame was maybe three quarters of the mass of Trailbreaker’s, and that was mostly thanks to his blast-proof plating. It was nice, being able to curl in against a bigger frame like this.

He could get used to it. And wasn’t that a scary thought.

It wasn’t like he’d ever considered Trailbreaker in that light before. But he hadn’t really considered anyone. He’d spent too long telling himself that the days of him having any chance of anything like this was long gone, and that he didn’t have anything to offer anymore.

After all, who’d want a scarred, unstable scientist with a flair for producing unintentional booms and a propensity for damaging not just himself, but everyone in the immediate vicinity?

He wouldn’t want himself either.

But for some reason, Trailbreaker did.

He remembered that much. The words whispered in the night, the sweet adorations, the light touches to Wheeljack’s face, the look on Trailbreaker’s face whenever he got to touch, like Wheeljack was a treasure he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have.

It was a heady feeling, being worshiped like that. And Wheeljack didn’t know what to make of it.

But he didn’t regret anything. He didn’t regret waking up to Trailbreaker in his berth.

Especially when Trailbreaker’s visor brightened slowly, and he reached out to pull Wheeljack close and snuggle up against his chassis. “Morning.”

“Hey,” Wheeljack replied softly. “Recharge well?”

“Very.” Trailbreaker nuzzled his plating. “You?”

“Much better than I expected, considerin’ the high-grade involved.” His tone was wry. “That had some serious kick to it.”

“I guess it did.” Trailbreaker chuckled. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologize. You were right, I needed that.”

He rested his chin on Trailbreaker’s helm. Somehow the black mech had ended up resting against Wheeljack’s shoulder, leaving his left hand free to stroke the sensitive seams on the back of Trailbreaker’s neck. The black mech purred, the rumbling sound vibrating against Wheeljack’s thick plating.

“When do you have to be on shift?”

“Second shift,” Trailbreaker replied. “So I’ve got some time. You?”

“I’m still waiting for those results I mentioned. So I don’t have to be anywhere unless someone calls for me.”

“Hmm.” Trailbreaker’s hand slid down Wheeljack’s thigh. “So… That means you have some time.”

Wheeljack grinned. Seemed like someone was hinting for a rerun.

He found he didn’t mind that one bit either. So he pushed at Trailbreaker slightly until the larger mech pulled back a bit, then slid down until he could meet his lips with his own.

It was looking to be a good day.

 

Wheeljack collected his cube and sat down at a vacant table. The rec room was filling up with the typical end-of-shift crowd, and he knew he wouldn’t be sitting alone for long.

In fact, he was banking on it.

Blaster walked past, giving him a jaunty wave, and Wheeljack nodded back. That mech was much happier after he’d found a way to keep performing. Hopefully the war would let him keep doing his gigs.

Primus knew they all deserved the good things.

And speaking of good things…

“Sorry I’m late.” Trailbreaker sat down next to Wheeljack, a full cube in his hand and an easy smile on his lips. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all.” Wheeljack leaned in, pressing a kiss to those lips. He didn’t miss the smirk Ratchet gave him as he walked past, Sideswipe right on his tail. “How was your shift?”

“Interesting enough. Kind of couldn’t wait to get back here, though.” Trailbreaker looked down, bashful, before smiling at Wheeljack. “Is it too much to say I missed you today?”

Wheeljack took his hand and tangled their fingers together. “It would be, if I didn’t miss you too.”

And how unexpected was that? Wheeljack still wasn’t sure he really believed this. Sometimes, he half expected to online and find out that he’d imagined the whole thing.

He didn’t think he could have imagined Trailbreaker, though. The way he smiled at Wheeljack when he didn’t think Wheeljack was watching. Those little terms of endearment whispered in the night. The way he got self-conscious and embarrassed whenever Wheeljack said something in return.

Impulsively, he lifted Trailbreaker’s hand and pressed it against his mask in a mock-up kiss. “Thanks.”

Trailbreaker’s smile was bright. “For what?”

“For gettin’ to me. For gettin’ under my plating that first night.”

Cue the flustered embarrassment Wheeljack was wondering if he was starting to love. “Don’t thank me for that. If anything, I should be thanking you. For giving me a chance.”

Wheeljack laughed softly. “I’m really glad I did.” He leaned his helm against Trailbreaker’s. “Hey.”

“Hey?” That smile again, brightening Trailbreaker’s optics and making Wheeljack’s spark spin faster. “Hey what?”

“Hey, want to prove how thankful you are in a more private venue?” He let his fingers glide across Trailbreaker’s arm suggestively. “I know I’m ready to prove how grateful I am.”

Trailbreaker just grinned and downed his cube. Then he stood up, tugging Wheeljack with him.

Okay, that confidence was seriously hot.

Wheeljack let himself be led out of the room, ignoring the cat-calls and whistling coming from a certain medic and his new partners.

He was fairly certain he wouldn’t trade this for anything else in the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it for Fragile. I may add chapters later on, but if I were to keep writing these guys' stories until the end I'd be writing the history of the war. So it's time to let it go. And Wheeljack proved to give excellent closure.  
> Thanks so much for reading ^^


	10. Epilogue: Blaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we have to go far into the future to find out how things really end. And sometimes, that end is just another beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the unintended epilogue! But catc10 wanted a happy ending for Blaster and Soundwave, and I figured I would post it here as well as in the comments to the last chapter so you all could read it.  
> This is the last for this story though. I'm so glad you've enjoyed it :)
> 
> Speedwritten and barely edited. So please forgive any errors :)

_Millions of years later…_

 

The battlefield was still full of mechs, hunting for the living and salvaging the deactivated. Not that there were many of those. Once Megatron had gone down and Starscream had fled, most of the rest of the Decepticons had surrendered.

Blaster was grateful for that. He'd reached his limit for what he could handle of death and destruction ages ago.

::Found him yet?::

::Not yet,:: Rewind replied. ::But Steelie's got the scent of something. We're not giving up.::

No. No, they weren't. But hope was slim, if it was still there at all.

::Stop that,:: Eject scolded. ::We're not done yet. It's the ninth inning, but we haven't lost.::

::Got something,:: Ramhorn interrupted. ::It's Rumble.::

::I've got Frenzy and Ravage,:: Rewind chimed in. ::They're roughened up, but alive.::

::Blaster! Blaster, I've got him!::

Blaster didn't even look to see where he was running. He followed the pull of his cassette, pinging Ratchet and First Aid as he ran.

There wasn't much visible in the mud. But he'd recognize that shade of blue anywhere.

::He's out, but he doesn't seem critically injured," Steeljaw offered. ::There's no scent of energon on him, and his spark's strong.::

Ratchet's sirens announced the arrival of the mech himself, and he skidded to a stop next to Blaster. Together they pulled Soundwave free of the mud. Ratchet didn't waste any time in transforming, letting Blaster slide his sparkmate inside.

"Ratchet, are there cassettes in his compartment?"

A scan washed over Soundwave's still frame. "Yeah. Three extra spark signatures."

Blaster heaved a sigh of relief. "Good. Then we've got all of them. We'll bring the rest of them in, okay?"

"Sounds good. Call First Aid if you need medical transport." Ratchet's voice softened. "Based on my scan, he should be fine, Blaster."

"Thanks, mech."

He watched the ambulance skid away. The mud wasn't giving Ratchet's tires much traction, but he got away clear.

Steeljaw looked up at him. "Ratchet said he'll be okay, Blaster."

"I know. I heard." He sighed again. "Come on, let's go get your siblings. All of them."

He wasn't letting them out of his sight anymore.

 

It was still strange, seeing those orange optics up close. Even dim as they were with Soundwave still in recharge. Ratchet had removed his mask and visor after placing Soundwave and the cassettes in a private room in the medbay, and Blaster was grateful.

He hadn't seen Soundwave's face in such a long time.

Those beautiful optics began brightening. It was slow at first, barely perceptible, but there, and Blaster took Soundwave's hand. The warmth of it was soothing.

"Easy, love," he said softly as Soundwave twitched. "You're safe. The little ones are safe. You're in Ratchet's medbay."

Soundwave looked at him in clear confusion for a moment, then seemed to relax.

"Blaster. Love."

"Yeah. Yeah, it's really me, brightspark." He fought back the hitch in his vocalizer, the tears threatening to overflow. "We made it. All of us."

Soundwave frowned slightly. "The war?"

"Over. Megatron's defeated. The remaining Decepticons will be treated fairly, I swear. Optimus has promised."

"Good." Soundwave squeezed Blaster's hand. "And me? Am I to be a prisoner?"

Blaster shook his head. "No one's a prisoner." He smiled at the gorgeous mech on the bed. It still felt surreal, seeing him there. "How does coming home with me sound? The kids have been waiting for you."

Soundwave's smile brightened. "Yes. Yes, please."

The 'finally' went unsaid. Though it was clearly felt.

"Great. Then I'll get Ratchet, see if he'll let you go."

He didn't move quite yet, though. For now, he was content to sit there, holding the hand of the mech he'd worried he'd never be reunited with.

The future was a bright, new thing. And they were actually going to be able to spend it together.

It was more than Blaster had ever hoped for. But Soundwave's hand was warm in his.

They were safe. Finally.


End file.
